The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors (3 page)

“Lots of people do. It happens all the time in Florida. There was this man who got struck thirty times.” In Becca’s room, Carrie knelt on the flower rug, flipping through Becca’s Mead sketchbooks—bright flowers and rainbows—while Becca put on a T-shirt and shorts. Carrie said, “You’re like the best artist I’ve ever met.”

“Not really.”

“You are! What’s this?”

“It’s supposed to be a picture of lightning.”

“It’s neat. How’d you make it?”

Becca remembered: She’d painted the sheet white and waited, watching paint dry, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t lightning. It wasn’t white enough and it wasn’t loud enough. She slid open the set of oil pastels her art teacher gave her for Christmas. There were twenty-four colors, and Becca chose titanium white. She started gingerly
dotting and streaking the paint with the crayon. The oil pastel was whiter than the paint. She could see a slight difference, but it wasn’t lightning. She circled and zigzagged the crayon, and it still wasn’t right. She peeled the paper off the oil pastel and broke a sweat scribbling.
You can’t paint lightning
. At least, Becca couldn’t paint lightning. Not then.

Becca took the painting from Carrie. “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, Bob’s cheating whore wife rushed down the paved drive to her car and waved to Becca. Becca whispered to Carrie, “That’s her: the lady I was telling you about.” Bob’s cheating whore wife drove away, her coffee cup forgotten on the car’s roof.

Carrie said, “She’s kind of pretty.”

“Her boobs are too big.”

Kevin Richfield, a blond, blue-eyed fifth-grader, rode past on his BMX racing bike.

Becca said, “Have you met him?”

“No.”

“He’s my destiny. If I decide to get married, I’m going to marry him. Otherwise, we might just live together. Do they do that in Florida? Do people live together without getting married?”

“Some people.”

“I would,” Becca said, “but I’d need my own bedroom and my own art room.”

“Of course,” Carrie said.

“I’m very creative.”

“You are.”

“What do
you
like to do?”

Carrie said, “Everything.”

Becca stared curiously. “Like what?”

“Ride bikes. Draw and paint like you, and my favorite thing is Barbie. I have a Barbie Dream House. I love Barbies. I have the Cadillac.”

“Hmm …” Becca had to think. She wasn’t sure how she felt
about Barbies. She confessed, “My mom hates Barbies, but I don’t. Not really, even though I’m supposed to. I’ve never played with them. I’d like to play with them, but I’m not supposed to.”

“How come?”

“It’s an unreal imagination or image or something of women.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“My parents are strange about some things.”

“I have a lot of Barbie clothes, and my mom makes them clothes too. You’ll have to come over.”

“Hmm?” Becca liked Carrie. There was possibility here.

The following weekend, Carrie spent the night at Becca’s. The Burkes were going to dinner with the chemistry chair, and Mary was in a tizzy (Rowan’s word) looking for her purple butterfly brooch. The babysitter Millie, standing by the sofa, was on the phone.

To Becca, Mary said, “Did you take it? Don’t lie!”

“I’m not lying.” Becca felt embarrassed.
She’s already drinking
.

“That’s my mother’s brooch.”

“I didn’t take it! Why would I take it?”
You hate your mother
.

Carrie said, “I’ll help you look for it, Mrs. Burke.”

Mary didn’t respond. “I can’t find shit in this house.” She picked up Rowan’s denim jacket from the sofa and threw it to the floor. A bottle cap spilled from the breast pocket, and there, poking out of the pocket, was something pink. Something with strawberries, faded reds and greens visible through folded stationery.

Rowan shouted from upstairs, “Your brooch is in your jewelry box.”

Millie the babysitter laughed—Mary presumed from something funny that someone had said on the telephone, but Millie was laughing at Mary.

Becca watched her mother pick up the strawberry note and slip it into her skirt pocket. Rowan descended the stairs dressed in a tweed blazer, white oxford shirt, and blue jeans. He held the
purple brooch. Seeing Mary, he said, “With a closet full of clothes, you’re wearing that?”

She looked down at her green pleated skirt and black boots. “I look nice.”

“Let’s go.”

From the sofa Millie said, “Have fun.”

Later, while Millie talked on the phone, Becca and Carrie ate popcorn and watched the
Late Night Friday Scarefest
. Becca showed Carrie her drawer of discarded watches. She said, “Sometimes I lose time—like, it should be five o’clock, but my watch says four forty-five, so I’m late, and it’s not my fault. Every day I lose a little more time, and then the watch just stops. It’s because of the lightning. No one cares. I get another watch.”

“Your parents know?”

“My dad says it’s something to do with the Communists. Did you see that note in my dad’s pocket?”

“What note?”

“It looked like there were strawberries on it.”

“I didn’t see it.”

“My mom took it.”

“Whose note is it?”

“It was in my dad’s pocket.”

“She shouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t hers.” Carrie had that morality, that sensibility that Becca’s parents lacked. Becca stuffed a handful of popcorn in her mouth. She didn’t want to talk anymore.

Carrie was Becca’s first love. She counted Carrie’s eyelashes while she slept. She borrowed her striped tube socks. She asked a lot of questions, like “What did you do for your birthday last year?” to hear the sound of Carrie’s voice.
Never stop talking to me
.

She told her mother, “Carrie is Sally, and I’m the girl with the naturally curly red hair. It’s hard to believe Peppermint Patty’s a girl,
sir
. Carrie thinks so too. Carrie thinks the Dallas Cowboys
are the best football team in the world because of Tom Landry. She also likes the San Francisco 49ers, who have something to do with gold.”

Becca’s mother said, “Carrie sounds very smart.”

“She is.”

Despite their family differences (Carrie’s parents were “blue collar”), the girls were, to quote Carrie’s dad, “two peas in a pod,” like “Martin and Lewis.” The girls said, “More like Sonny and Cher.”

Carrie’s parents rented a bungalow close to campus, and before they’d even finished unpacking, Carrie was begging her parents to let her play soccer and take ballet. Becca, hopeful that Carrie’s parents would say yes, stood at her side. They held hands.

Carrie’s dad, Pete, said, “I can’t be running you all over hell and creation.”

Her mom said, “Your dad’s right, Carrie. Pick one thing. We both work, and there’s just not time. Pick one.”

Carrie looked at Becca. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Ballet. The clothes are better.”

Carrie said, “Ballet,” and squeezed Becca’s hand. She squeezed back.

Her dad said, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now go play in traffic.”

All was fine and good with the Burkes and the Drinkwaters until the following March when talk of Chapel Hill’s annual dance recital intensified. It was a big deal. There were sequined costumes and shoes and pictures to be bought. The Drinkwaters couldn’t afford the costumes or the shoes. Carrie said, “My mom says a yellow sequined leotard is a waste. It’s ridiculously expensive.” Becca and Carrie sat at Mario’s Pizzeria eating pizza bread—bigger than a regular slice and cheaper too. Carrie was explaining that she couldn’t dance, not with how much everything cost; she was sorry, but she wasn’t going to be able to participate in the recital. Becca was listening, feeling sorry for Carrie—who always worried about her parents’ money situation—happy to get her school clothes from Goodwill or her nicer things from Kmart. Becca’s clothes
came from Bobbie’s, which was more of a boutique, and locally owned. She shuddered at the thought of wearing someone else’s discarded pants or sweaters. Becca was listening, waiting for her chance to say
Maybe my dad could help out
or
Maybe Mrs. Hogg has extra costumes?
when she spotted her dad through the restaurant’s parted curtains. He was walking with the babysitter Millie, his fingers grazing the teen’s forearm. Surely it meant nothing. But something, something warm and spreading in Becca’s gut, told her otherwise.

“Are you going to finish that?” Carrie asked, pointing to Becca’s pizza bread.

Becca stared at the black institution-style clock above the door. She saw the minute hand move two clicks counterclockwise. No one else saw.

Carrie said, “Are you upset because I can’t dance in the recital?”

“No.” The recital didn’t mean anything in the larger scheme of things. Even at her age, Becca knew that. Feeling nauseated, she looked at Carrie. “Can we go?”

Carrie grabbed her book bag. “You didn’t eat—”

“I don’t want it.”

Carrie snatched Becca’s pizza bread off her plate. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” After all, her parents were simply going through a rough spot. She saw similar stories on
The Phil Donahue Show
. Certainly they wouldn’t get divorced. Her dad said divorce was tacky. Things would get better.

Carrie danced that May.

Rowan saw to it. He thought the recital was important to Becca because it was important to him.

That April, he drove to Mrs. Drinkwater’s office with the yellow sequined costume, the green tutu, and shoes for Carrie. Mrs. Drinkwater worked as an office assistant for Dr. Calhoun, a neurosurgeon. At three in the afternoon, she sat transcribing a
recording of Dr. Calhoun’s diagnosis of a twelve-year-old boy with a brain tumor. She typed wearing headphones. Professor Burke entered the office in jeans and a polo shirt.

Carrying two bags from Dance Girl, he was there to “save the day.” Mrs. Drinkwater had barely gotten her headphones down around her neck when he swung the plastic bags onto her desk and said, “I’m really in a hurry, Belinda. These are for Carrie. So the girls can dance.” He winked. He smiled.

She said, “I can’t …” but he was gone.
Who the hell do you think you are?
Belinda Drinkwater did not like Rowan Burke.

What wasn’t to like? Rowan would want to know. He was intelligent and handsome and soon he’d have tenure, and one day he’d buy that yacht. Come hell or high water, he’d find a way to regain the wealth the Burkes had lost.

He wasn’t about to let Carrie Drinkwater drop out of the May recital. Not while he resided in Chapel Hill. Not while appearances mattered. If that little girl was his daughter’s best friend, she would dance.

The recital was, as always, a success. Along with thirty other girls, Becca and Carrie, dressed like yellow tulips, dipping and twirling in first, second, and fifth positions, flitted across the stage.

After the recital, Mrs. Hogg curtsied onstage with an armful of jonquils. The crowd was on its feet, impressed with the performing eight- and nine-year-olds, their poise and pirouettes.

Becca’s parents sat proudly in the front row. Belinda Drinkwater sat three rows back. Carrie’s dad had to work late, which was actually a relief to Belinda, who didn’t want him insulting Rowan Burke. She could imagine him saying,
Who the hell do you think you are, showing up at my wife’s job? Do you think you’re better than me? Because, Goddamn it, you’re not! You’re not better than me
. Chapel Hill was like no place the Drinkwaters had ever lived, and except for a handful of snobs, Belinda liked the town. It was charming—“beautified,” the realtor said—a college town with
safe schools and art venues. And amid this culture, the Drinkwaters were making ends meet.

After the seats had emptied, the cicadas screeching, the black trees seeming to close around the spotlighted girls in their sequins and bright tutus, the parents paced and chatted while the well-respected photographer posed their daughters for posterity.

The next week, Mary drove to Mrs. Hogg’s school to pick up the ballet pictures she’d purchased. The photographer, known for his skill with shadow and light, was quoted as saying, “Pictures aren’t necessarily about the subject but what surrounds that subject.” This was never truer than at the Forest Theater, where the yearly recital was held. The long branches of the trees, although not visible in the pictures, were felt in the position and eyes of the ballerinas. For two de cades, Wallace’s photographs, documenting Chapel Hill’s graceful ballerinas and genteel citizenry, lined the walls of a dozen downtown eateries and shops. Wallace, the gentry agreed, was a rare orchid among the window-boxed roses and daisies lining Franklin Street.

Mrs. Hogg, a stout woman with a squeaky voice, handed the envelope of Wallace’s photographs to Mary.

Mrs. Hogg shuffled and straightened folders, walking back and forth to her metal file cabinet. “It was one of our greatest nights,” she said. Mary slid the first eight-by-ten from the envelope, dropping her keys. As they clanked to the floor, Mrs. Hogg continued: “We couldn’t have asked for better weather, and the girls danced divinely.” In Wallace’s photograph, Becca’s head was crowned with an iridescent orange-and-yellow-tipped light. Mary’s anticipation turned to irritation. She’d envisioned a portrait reflecting her daughter’s grace and strength. “Look at this,” she said, showing the eight-by-ten to Mrs. Hogg.

“I’m afraid they’re all like that.” Mrs. Hogg bent down for Mary’s keys. Setting them on her desk, she said, “It’s unusual.”

Mary said, “Is it some kind of effect? Why did he do this? Are all the girls haloed? What was he thinking?”

“No,” Mrs. Hogg interrupted. “All of
Becca’s
pictures are like this. The other photographs are as splendid as ever.” She took the photo from Mary. “I don’t understand it. Neither did Wallace.” Mrs. Hogg pulled eight more photographs from the packet, laying them out for Mary to see. “Here the light is reddish, but here it’s rather blue.” She pointed to another picture. “Most of the halos are yellow.”

“There’s something wrong with the film.”

“You can call Wallace. He said that Becca was an anomaly. He wants to photograph her again.”