The Handbook for Lightning Strike Survivors by Michele Young-Stone Page B

They parked their boxy American cars in a row at the side of the house and down the dirt drive. The bare trees and brown grasses framed the crisp blue sky. It was a cold February day. Inside, Tom, who’d already removed the boxes from the living room and the upstairs kitchen, played host. He pulled back the curtains and distributed plates of food. Forks clanked on plates. Conversation hummed. Mary overheard Tom tell Old Man John, “We’re staying here.” Mary thought,
Who is “we”? He’s a fool
, and she poured a glass of scotch. People she hardly knew patted her shoulder and embraced her, paying their condolences.
    Marianne Pamplin said to the reverend, “I brought the potato salad and the cherry pie.”
    Becca scanned the buffet, crowded with the standard meatballs, platter of fried chicken, tray of ham biscuits, and casseroles with thick cheesy tops. Spotting Marianne Pamplin’s famous potato salad, she heaped the mayonnaise-rich potatoes onto her plate. Becca took a large bite and laughed at how awful it was, spraying the potato salad onto the rug. Grandma Edna was right. It was by far the worst potato salad Becca had ever tasted. The mayonnaise was warm. She announced, “This is delicious,” spilling her food on the rug. She laughed, and the mourners averted their eyes.
Someone ought to do something about that child
was the general consensus, she knew. Her father, who loathed a scene, took her by the elbow and reached for her plate. Becca, wriggling loose, saw Grandma Edna rocking heel to toe by the newly hung curtains. Grandma Edna’s blue eyes were moist, the way they’d been the day the two of them had snapped beans. Becca heard her grandma laugh. “Grandma,” Becca said, and the conversational hum stopped. “Grandma.”
    Everyone looked at Becca.
    “Come on, Bec.” Her father and Claire’s boyfriend, Tom, lifted Becca from the rug. Tom wiped at the spilled potato salad with a frayed napkin. Becca hung limply, both knees on the rug. Her father’s hands were under her elbows. “Mary,” he called for help. “Come on, Becca. Don’t make a scene.”
    Becca couldn’t resist. “Your potato salad’s delicious.” She smiled at Grandma Edna, who still rocked heel to toe by the curtains. Becca knew her grandma would be here. Of course, no one else could see her. That’s the way it is with these things—or is it? Marianne Pamplin, not long for the world, looked to the curtains. Becca watched as she put one hand on her hip and shook her head, as if to say,
Get out of here, you. You’re dead
. Then Grandma Edna was gone.
    Marianne Pamplin said, “I’ll send the recipe to your mother.” Holding her pearls against her bottom lip, she dropped them to her blouse, smiling at the odd little girl on the floor, who she presumedwould grow up to have mental problems like the youngest Wickle girl, Claire. Then, finding the two sisters in separate rooms, she whispered to one and then the other the standard “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    Claire said, “Thank you for coming, Marianne,” but Mary was drunk and responded, “Why?” Mary tottered onto the front porch in front of the reverend and Marianne Pamplin with her glass of scotch, the ice cubes tinkling. The reverend was driving Marianne Pamplin home. He tried to shake Mary’s hand on the porch, but Mary had a cigarette in the one hand and her scotch in the other.
Maybe another time, preacher man
.

Excerpt from
THE HANDBOOK FOR LIGHTNING STRIKE SURVIVORS
    “It felt like I died. I told my son, ‘I’m dead,’ and he said, ‘No, Mama, you got struck by lightning, but you’re not dead.’
    “I said, ‘Nobody gets struck by lightning.’ We were on the beach, and there was only one black cloud. Even with my son right there and the lifeguard running toward us, I thought I was dead. I don’t remember the next few days. Still, today, ten years later, I think I died that day. My husband and son are always reminding me how lucky I am to be