When the Light Goes Out Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Shawn Bartek, Bubby Dee Publishing

  Cover Design © 2017 Shawn Bartek

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Note from the Author

  fish·plate

  n.

  A metal or wooden plate bolted to the sides of two abutting rails or beams, used especially in the laying of railroad track.

  INITIAL ISOLATION AND PROTECTIVE ACTION DISTANCES:

  o If a tank, rail car, or tank truck is involved in a fire, isolate it for 0.5 mi (800 m) in all directions; also consider initial evacuation for 0.5 mi (800 m) in all directions.

  o Large spills (involving quantities greater than 52.83 gallons (200 liters))

  o First isolate in all directions: 800 ft (240 m).

  o Then protect persons downwind during the day: 1.5 mi (2.4 km).

  o Then protect persons downwind during the night: 4.6 mi (7.4 km).

  -From the Centers for Disease Control

  Prologue

  “You see the train, buddy?” his father’s eyes said to him in the rearview mirror.

  Little Tommy was locked into his padded car seat, chewing on his index finger. He had dropped his Hot Wheels on the floor and the finger was all he had left. He straightened up and peered through a small vantage point between his father's seatbelt and the headrest.

  “Oh yeah!” he said, “Train! Like Thomas.”

  “That’s right, buddy,” his father said.

  “Toms, you’ll be able to tell your Grammy that you saw that train in thirteen minutes,” his mother said. She pointed to the dash clock, “That will be when this still says ‘one’, but over here this says ‘twenty’.”

  The toddler ignored the numbers lesson and kept his eyes fixed on the train that now paced their car. The train glided along as smoothly as they did; the background was of blur of jagged stone and pine trees. Tommy wondered if there were elephants on that train.

  The tracks began to veer away from the freeway and Tommy’s limited depth perception fooled him into thinking the train was shrinking. He let out a squeal. As the incredible shrinking locomotive approached a dark steel bridge, two black tanker cars near the center of the train bucked. A gap rose between them and one of them disappeared completely from Tommy’s sight. Tommy’s finger dropped out of his mouth.

  “Oh, shit,” his father said.

  “Rod, watch your mouth!” his mother said.

  “That train…shit…” his father said.

  Chapter I

  It was the Blue Oyster Cult again.

  Ami Gibb awoke on April 18th at quarter to seven in the morning to the tinny sound of rock music blaring from her clock radio.

  At this exact time of morning, there were only five different songs in the radio station’s rotation. If it wasn’t “Burnin’ for You”, it could be Edgar Winter’s “Frankenstein”, or possibly Heart’s “Crazy on You”. And also ZZ Top’s “La Grange”. Tomorrow was Friday and Ami would be unfailingly face-slapped by the spacy synthesizer of the Steve Miller Band’s “Fly Like an Eagle”.

  The alarm clock was a hand-me-down from her father; an early digital model with faux wood paneling. It was a true junker; years of dust and dried Pledge lining its tiny nooks; its dial permanently stuck on her dad’s favorite station, K101.1FM–Classic Rock.

  Ami never understood this. Her dad clearly had a strong connection to the music, but it didn’t suit the man she only knew as a geek with a starched shirt and a trim haircut. Even the radio dial on her dad’s Durango was always set to this station.

  That was the enigma for her: how could her dad—a man that forced Raffi’s music upon her, know this music so well? It was the riddle that put a kink in Ami’s mission to label her dad a perfect square. Martin would sing along too perfectly to Lynyrd Skynyrd, whistling precisely along with guitar solos. No doubt that Skynyrd was stupid, but they had guitars, which are inherently cool, which meant that anything having to do with guitars should have nothing to do with her father. There was no way that her dad—an Ad Counsel volunteer, was ever eighteen years old with the interests of a young person.

  She now found herself wondering more about what her dad was like at eighteen. Without the permanent public record of social media, pictures from this period in his life were scarce. Ami had always seen the few shots that involved a mop-cut, tinted glasses, and jeans tight enough to make her want to throw up. Her mom would then mention what a hottie her Dad was, which would then prompt Ami to plug her fingers in her ears and ululate until she nearly passed out.

  Before now, her sense of history began with her own birth and her scope of mortality was that people she knew would die someday. Someday— way, way, way in the future.

  The radio continued to blare and—right on schedule, “Crazy on You” filled the air.

  Someday, if she could bring herself to do it, Ami vowed to conduct a morbid little experiment; to narrow down which song was playing on the radio when her dad’s accident happened. With the station’s predictable routine and knowing the exact time of the crash, there’d be a one-in-five chance she’d find out the correct answer.

  Anytime Ami drove now, she would wonder what will be the last song she’ll ever hear.

  She had no right to complain about waking up to K101.1 FM. Her new smartphone had thousands of alarm options. If she wanted music, she could have Interpol or Beach House. She could choose the geeky 8-bit noodling that scored Legend of Zelda. On her first attempt to switch full alarm duties to the phone, she set the ringtone to “Summer Love” from Grease and set it for quarter to seven.

  After one day of waking up to the phone, she went back to the classic rock radio.

  The clock face registered only as a deep blue haze. One more snooze press would mean nine more minutes, and that wouldn’t do anybody harm. This insight gave her a nice shot of dopamine. Her lights went out again.

  No big surprise: she was dreaming of Scott again. He was in the short-sleeved shirt and his triceps were poking out when he wrapped his arms around her. Thanks to the magic of the dream, they were at the video store on Burlington Ave—impossible, since it had closed when she was ten and they had never been there together. Nonetheless, there they were, giggling over the cover art for a cheesy B-movie. A clerk told them the store was closing and if they wanted to rent something they’d better have a membership.

  Then they were sitting on Mount Jumbo and watching fireworks bloom over the Missoula Valley. They were close together under the blanket. That one happened for real. That was before he had decided his future would move on without her.

  Dreaming was a dicey proposition. Sometimes you get the goo-goo eyes and beautiful vistas. But sometimes you get the bad shit; the moment of heartbreak and the yelling and then, as a bonus, all of the dismal emotions follow you into consciousness.

  This one was turning fo
r the worse. She uttered a whisper-shout, but couldn’t be sure if it had taken place in the dream or aloud against her sweaty pillow. It jostled her fully awake this time, working far better than the radio.

  It was pushing two-thirty in the morning when she stormed her bedroom last night. Ami left a few loose-ends along the way to her rush to comfort. When she slid off the bed, her unprotected feet came down on the car keys that had drizzled from her exhausted hands only four hours before. She squealed, snagged up the keys and slung them across the room. They fanned out across her dresser and tagged the edge of a family photo that would be fit for internet ridicule. Ami held her breath as she watched the glass frame teeter. It stayed up.

  * * *

  Ami finished a cold and unsatisfying shower. Her sister had a knack for stealing hot water. Goddamn Dana and Goddamn an inadequate water heater.

  She savored the warmth of the terry cloth towel. Looking into the mirror at the dark circles under her eyes, she recited her daily mantra. It went like this:

  I want to have a good day today. I will put on my happy-dog face. With my subterfuge, I will spare everyone the obligation of awkward solace. I will get over this shit and all will be sunshine and fucking rainbows from here on out.

  Ami intimately knew these words now; some days she’d repeat it in different accents. She’d even developed melodies for it—different genres, even. Some days it was slow jazz, some days it was marching band, some days it was death metal.

  It felt like it was working. She used to recite it three times to the mirror, but now once a morning would do it. It was becoming a reptilian function. The mantra had built a mech suit around her and the suit had become self-sustaining.

  As she passed her parents’ bedroom, she could hear the murmur of the water pipes and realized Dana was still in the shower. This was going to be the third time this month she was late for Geometry. She placed her head against the wall. There was a random patch of spackling arguably shaped like a Scottish Terrier, so she carved a nose on it with a fingernail.

  "Dana," Ami rose her voice towards the bathroom, “We have to go. Turn off the shower.”

  "I’m not ready yet,” she called back.

  “You will still stink after the shower, so just wrap it up now, please.”

  “Stop it, cow. I’m hurrying.”

  Ami kicked one of her mother’s shoes across the room and said, “You are the opposite of hurrying!”

  “Cow!” came back from beyond the bathroom door.

  * * *

  Ami plopped down at the kitchen table, unlocked her phone and read her mother’s latest email again. It said:

  Hi, Loves,

  Home on Saturday. I needed this. I promise I’ll be better when I get back. I love you two more than ice cream sandwiches.

  -Mom

  Household anarchy started last Sunday. Pam was in Toronto. Her therapist had told her that it would be an indispensable and cathartic adventure to take her best friends to where she and Martin honeymooned.

  The note followed her mother’s overall trend as of late: too glib for Ami.

  I hope you love us more than ice cream sandwiches, Ami thought.

  Too glib. And selfish. Why in the hell does she get to guzzle a dozen gallons of wine on a vacation, while she and Dana were stuck at home? And the way Pam said Ami would be Dana’s replacement mom for the week was so casual. Calling her “Replacement Mom”. The flippancy annoyed Ami; it made the circumstances sound like a lame sitcom on CBS.

  The reviews for Replacement Mom were averaging a C-plus.

  Ami reconsidered and downgraded her performance to a C-Minus. Replacement Mom probably shouldn’t have left her faux daughter home alone until 2AM so that she could hang out with her friends.

  Replacement Mom was only following the abandonment example set by Real Mom.

  Ami brushed her hair out of her eyes; hair that had recently been dyed black. She had enough of being a blonde. They don’t have more fun. Her life had proved this.

  Dana appeared from the hallway and darted for the Captain Crunch. Her arm disappeared into the box and reappeared with a handful of the glazed puffs. She crammed half of the handful into her mouth and spilled the other half on the woven rug below.

  “Now who’s the cow?” Ami asked.

  Dana chewed for an eternity and said, “Don’t judge me.”

  From the corner of her eye, Ami noticed something askew in the peripheral. Something in the living room was now conflicting with her memory. There was a gap in the hutch where Pam’s last birthday present to Martin used to sit. It was a crystal bottle, shaped like a ’59 Corvette. It usually sat on the top shelf, dimly lit by pen lights and locked behind semi-frosted glass doors amongst a variety of tchotchkes with a similar, but non-alcoholic, tackiness. But now, gone was the bottle, along with the brandy inside.

  “Dana!” Ami fired at her, “Where is Dad’s Corvette?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dana, don’t even. Where is it?”

  “How could I get it? The door is locked.”

  “Bullshit. Mom hasn’t locked that door since Dad died.”

  “I don’t know, maybe you took it.”

  Ami now saw the opportunity to cover up her own small misdeed. Yes, Dana had taken it last night, but Ami had gotten to it two nights ago and had a few swigs. She’d even gone through the trouble of noting how full the bottle had been; that way she’d know where to refill with water.

  Dana didn’t need to know that part. Dana can learn what it means to be a hypocrite when she has to teach responsibility to a younger sister.

  “You’re in deep trouble, Dana. This is not cool. I’ll tell Mom.”

  “I’ll tell her you did it.”

  “Dana, do you understand forensics?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Right. You don’t. You see, Dana,” Ami lifted the cell phone to her ear, “I’ll call the police and have them dust for fingerprints and they’ll know it was you.”

  Dana lunged at the phone, “Don’t, Ami! It’s in my room, just don’t call the police.”

  “Why is it in your room?”

  “I wanted to try a drink.”

  Ami, about to become the pot to the respective kettle, said, “This is very bad, Dana. You do not drink that stuff, do you hear me? I’m very close to telling Mom.”

  “Please don’t,” Dana’s face distorted with desperation.

  Now that she was defeated, Ami relented. As annoying as Dana could be, Ami couldn’t stay mad at her little sister. She was just too darned cute, especially after the times Ami would destroy her. Ami scooted her chair next to Dana and nudged her shoulder.

  “Why’d you want a drink?” Ami asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dana’s glassy eyes looked back, “I wanted to know what it does. I wanted to know why it made Mom feel better.”

  Ami exhaled, “Dana, you just need to stay away from it.”

  * * *

  “Slow down!” Dana said from the backseat of Ami’s Ford Festiva.

  “I wouldn’t have to drive so fast if I wasn’t a punishable amount of late right now,” Ami said.

  “You’re driving too close on that car up there.”

  “Dana, this person is going very slow. I need to make them aware of this fact. Otherwise, they will not learn anything and they will frustrate people for the rest of their lives.”

  “It’s not safe, stop it. Our dad died in a car accident, Ami.”

  Ami flinched, “That’s not funny, Dana.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be,” Dana sulked at her shoes.

  “Sorry,” Ami said, forgetting that Dana occasionally said something earnest.

  “You just scare me at driving. Thank God I’m riding the bus home.”

  “Don’t rag on me, rag on mom. She sees one news show about how awesome charter schools are and you get stuck across town at G.W. They could have just sent you across the street to Prescott and you could have skipped your way to class every morning.
”

  “I like G.W. I’m just telling you, you’re not a good driver and you could end up like just like Dad. Or kill us both.”

  Ami threw her sister steely eyes in the mirror, “I will be driving you for the rest of this week and that is the last time I want to hear you say that.”

  “I don’t care. Whatever you do to me, I’ll tell mom you left me at home alone until two last night.”

  “Did you forget about your binge drinking? That’s what I tell Mom.”

  “Fine,” Dana huffed with the appropriate amount of melodrama.

  Ami’s phone buzzed from the black cradle suctioned to her dash. Her mom’s picture appeared on the screen. Ami, taking a cue from her sister, swiped at it theatrically. Her mom greeted them through the car’s speakers.

  “Hello,” Ami said back.

  “How are my two sweeties getting along?” Pam asked.

  “Famously, Mom,” Ami said.

  “Good,” Pam said, “We’re doing good here. It’s been really good. Saw the old hotel where your father and I stayed on our honeymoon. Still looks the same.”

  “That’s good,” Ami said flatly.

  “I’ll have lots of pictures.”

  “Mom,” Dana raised her voice from the back seat, “When are you coming home?”

  Ami made an awkward hand gesture at Dana, one that was meant to imply shut up, but was a universal sign for nothing in particular.

  “Just a few more days, DeeBee,” Pam said, “Ami. I need you to pick up your Aunt Donna’s pills for her.”

  Ami’s mouth dropped open, “When am I supposed to do that?”

  “You can go at lunch. I already called it in to the Rite-Aid by your school.”

  “I can’t pick that up for her. Isn’t that illegal or something?”

  “No, it’s not illegal. Donna already let them know you’d be picking it up.”

  “Nice of everyone to tell me,” Ami said, “I had plans for lunch.”

  This now meant she had to drop by Donna’s after school and get stuck with an obligatory visit. An hour-long chat (minimum) giving Ami the pleasure of hearing about the work accident again. Donna’s living room was once the center of family parties; now it was a dark, smoky husk, dimly lit by the glow of cable news. She was partial to the channel dominated by the paranoid ramblings of old, rich white pundits.