“That’s okay.” His voice breaks. It takes him a moment to regain control. “Bring her back to us. We don’t blame you.”
“I beg her to let me every day.” Now emotion gets to me. I swallow hard and whisper, “She won’t listen. She’s—ashamed.”
He breathes a moment and whispers back, “Tell her we love her. Is she close? Can I talk to her?”
“No.” I should have called from her room, put her on. She knew she’d have to talk to him. That’s why she made me call from here. “She thinks you’ll be angry with her.”
“Never.” His voice is stronger, solid again.
I stand and walk to my window. “I know.” The parking lot is dark except for one light. “I’ll tell her, though.”
“Has she”—he pauses so long I think he’s gone, but finally gets the words out—“said anything more about the accident?”
I wish I could give him something, but I’ve got nothing. “No. Just that it’s all her fault.” I hesitate, hating the words that rise to my lips. “She thinks her mom hates her. And your God, too.”
“Tell her that’s a wicked lie.” Wicked? Yeah. Evil and wicked. He says in a voice that sounds like a prophet. “No matter what. We love her.”
“And, sir. I want you to know.” I swallow, switch the phone to my other ear. “I’m keeping that promise I made at Thanksgiving.” My hand grows slick with sweat. The phone slips. “I won’t touch her—not until we’re married.”
“You’re getting married?” Does that scare him worse than anything else? “When?”
End of summer? Tomorrow? What do I tell him? “Someday.”
“Bring her home first.”
“If I can, I will.”
“Take care of her, son.” His voice fills with infinite sadness. “We miss our girl.”
Him calling me “son” chokes me up like it always did. “She’s sorry. Tell her mom, too. She’s sorry.”
I sleep past nine in the morning. Feel half-way human again. Talking to Leesie’s dad grounded me. We’re going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay. I got to tell Leesie—get her grounded, too. I book it down to the rehab place, but when I get there, Leesie’s room is full of nurses and a tall, black man wearing a white doctor’s coat.
“What were you thinking,” he speaks with a Caymanian accent, “traveling all this way injured as you are?” His island voice fills the room like a preacher’s.
Leesie holds up her ring with purple swollen fingers. “We’re supposed to be on our honeymoon. I crashed two days before our wedding. The hospital said I was good to travel.” Leesie lying? Weird.
“Well, they were crazy to let you leave.” He flips through the release papers I turned over yesterday when I checked Leesie in here. “How long is this honeymoon supposed to last? You’ll get no beach time for weeks.”
“All summer.” I walk in and shake the guy’s hand. “I’m a dive instructor. Looking for work.”
“Have you got Cayman papers?”
“Working on it.”
He knows I’m lying. “Have you been here before?”
I nod. “It’s my favorite place in the world to dive.” At least Little Cayman is. Got to get Leesie over there.
The doctor turns back to Leesie. “Let’s see what we have here.” He casually pushes the button on her morphine pump before he starts with her head, examines her cut. “Nicely done.” He glances back at the clipboard. “Concussion?” He flashes a penlight in Leesie’s eyes. “Good dilation. Does your head pound?”
“Not right now.”
“When you’re not on morphine?”
“Yeah.”
He raps under her knee with the side of his hand. It jumps like it’s supposed to. “Good. The headaches should subside in a few more days. No permanent nerve damage.”
“That’s good?” Leesie looks over at me and smiles slightly.
“Yes.” He snips off the bandages to examine her nose. Black, blue, purple, green. The colors twist together and scream pain. He touches her nose. “The packs your surgeon placed in the nostrils are well-positioned.” He runs his finger over the bump high up on her nose. “You’ll end up with a bit of a bump here. But we’ll keep the nose straight. You can opt for cosmetic surgery once all this is healed up.”
“I can have any nose I want?”
No way. She’s going to stick with the nose I fell in love with. He keeps touching it, and Leesie gets paler and paler. The garish colors seems to ooze and twist, moving, crawling, spreading all over her face. The room grows hotter. My heads turns fuzzy, and I can’t breathe. I think I sway.
The nurse Leesie named, Sugar, takes my elbow. “Let’s get us some fresh air why don’t we.”
I jerk my elbow away. “No, I’m fine.” I sway again.
“Do you want to faint in front of her?” She grabs my arm, guides me out Leesie’s sliding door, and deposits me on a bench in the garden. “A few deep breaths, sugar, and you’ll feel better.” She disappears.
I cycle through my free dive breathing, inhale the flowers around me. Smile when I detect my mom’s favorite scent. Gardenias. I’m glad she’s close. I could use her help about now. I wander around, find the bush and break off branch after branch of dark green leaves and small white fragrant flowers.
When I make it back to Leesie’s room, she’s got a new pink bandage on her nose, and the medical team is gone.
“You are a wimp.”
I inhale gardenias for strength. “If you saw your nose, you’d faint, too.”
“Pretty gory?”
“The goriest.” I stick my bouquet in her half-empty water cup.
She motions towards her hospital gowned torso. “Do you want to see my ribs? He left them undone.”
“Are they gory, too?”
She nods. “The bruising is ugly, but the doctor is most worried I’ll get pneumonia.” She’s supposed to breath deep so the air sacks in her lungs don’t stick together. “I told them I learned everything I know about heavy breathing from you.”
I crack a smile. “You didn’t.”
“No.” She manages a crooked smile back. “But it’s true.”
I bite my lip. “I was just out there doing free dive cycles.”
“That’s what I told them.” She punches a button so the bed sits her up more. “You’re now my coach.”
I sit beside her. “Cool.” I smooth my hand over her head.
She closes her eyes and leans into my caress. “He thinks it’s a good idea to keep me trussed up like this for another week so the collarbone can set. After that I’ll just need the sling.” Her eyes open.
“What about your hand?” I pick it up, inspect the fingers, wonder when my ring will fit on them again. “Did we keep it elevated enough?”
“He said that’s just for the swelling.” She wiggles her fingers. “We’re past that crisis now. I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
Her fingers still look puffy to me.
She pulls the sheet up to show off her footwear. “I have to wear these new boots night and day for the next three weeks so my ankles heal strong.” Her new boots, lined with support, snugged tight with Velcro, are nothing like the floppy footgear she had before. She looks tired, worn out, strained.
I try to read her eyes. “Did he hurt you—poking and prodding?”
She holds up her morphine pump and pushes the button. “This stuff is great, but it makes me dozy.” She yawns. “He said I’ll need it around the clock for at least another week. Then we can taper off.”
“No more skipping your pills?”
She nods—so obedient today.
I balance her hand on my outstretched palm. “When do you get your cast off your hand?” And your nose, but I don’t want to bring that up again.
She pulls her hand away, lays it on her own chest. “Another five weeks—maybe longer. They’re going to X-ray it tomorrow and put on a new waterproof one to match my nose.”
“Pink?”
“Yes.” She scowls at m
y tone and sticks out her tongue. “And then we can go to the beach.”
I smile. “Cool.” The smile fades as I remember what I came to tell her. “I got a hold of your dad.”
She closes her eyes and turns her face to the wall.
I bend down, hover over her. “They aren’t mad. Don’t blame you.” I stroke her silky scalp. “You can go home.” I lean closer so I can whisper in her ear. “You rest here another couple weeks, get really strong, and then let’s fly home.”
She speaks in a small tight voice. “I can’t. He doesn’t know.”
“He does, Leese.” I kiss her temple. “He says God doesn’t think you’re guilty. He says they love you.”
“They’ll hate me.”
I nuzzle my lips against the side of her bare head. “Let me call him and tell him I’m bringing you home.” I slide my arms around her so I can embrace her. “They need some hope right now, babe. You got to go home.” I squeeze her close, .
She doesn’t answer.
I kiss the back of her neck.
“No.”
My arms relax defeat. “What happened, Leese? This isn’t you. Why—”
She turns terror-filled eyes towards me. “Don’t ask me. Ever again. If you love me—”
I wish I could press this. What could be so ominous? She looks so pathetic. I back off. “Look.” I slide off the bed and pick up the flowers. “I brought you something to inhale deeply.”
She bends her head toward the branches and tries to smell the gardenias. “Sorry. I can’t smell anything. I’ve got stuff shoved up my nose holding the bones in place.”
“No problem. Let’s get to work on those free dive cycles.”
She looks at me through her eyelashes. “I can inhale you.”
Sugar comes in, unhooks Leesie’s IV, and tapes the needle sticking out of her hand down. I help Leesie to her post-op surgically booted feet, guide her out to my bench, hold her on my lap and coach her through cycles one to three. She’s not ready to pack yet. Then we make out in the sunshine.
She whispers, “Kissing you is the only thing that feels right.”
My lips moves against her mouth. “That’s just the morphine talking.”
“Then let’s enjoy it.” She sucks my tongue into her mouth and keeps it.
I do enjoy that. Way too much. I finally break loose, sit up straight. “Freak, Leese. That so not allowed.”
“But we’re officially engaged.” She picks up the ring, dangling on its chain, and twists it so the diamond flashes in the sunlight.
“No—on our honeymoon.” I nuzzle her neck. “You little liar.”
“You backed me up.” She tries to get my lips again but can’t reach.
“What else could I do?”
“Let me have your tongue back.”
I move my mouth to her ear and whisper, “Not until you can follow it up with more action.”
“Party pooper.”
“Torturer.”
A lopsided grin breaks out on her face. “That totally frustrates you?”
“Totally.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
I peck her lips one last time. “I won’t let you forget.”
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #79, PHIL
They buried my brother
today. It hangs in the air
between me and Michael
unsaid,
untouched,
unwept.
If we don’t speak it,
is it real?
Could it happen
without my words?
My consent?
He’s there in the locker
room, driving the tractor,
dancing with Krystal
wrapped tight in his arms.
Not cold in a coffin
too gruesome to open.
Not slid into a hearse
filled with flowers.
Not lowered into a deep hole
in a place he didn’t want
to rest. Not whispering
at the edges of my soul.
“I’m here, Leesie.
Let me in. I’m here.”
Michael doesn’t bring it up.
Keeps the silence—even
when he tells me about dad.
He sticks by me all day—drinks
half my smoothie, shares his
French fries and does his best
to make this ugly bruised cue ball
so hideous to look at he nearly fainted
feel sexy,
adored,
beloved.
He sits by my bed
while I nap—worn
out by doctors’
ministrations, Michael’s
attentive encouragement,
and holding Phil back.
I dream I’m there.
Dream fingers point.
Dream angry faces
screaming condemnation
surround me.
Dream rocks, big ones,
clutched in their hands.
Dream they raise them high
over their heads and no
gentle Savior intercedes,
no quiet voice says,
“He who is without sin.”
The stones fly but I feel
nothing—they form a cairn
around me. I’m entombed,
untouched—imprisoned
forever.
Hands knock on the outside,
voices call my name—
Michael, my dad—mom—grandma,
even Phil,
and a sweet, strong voice
I know so well.
I block my ears
scream and scream and scream.
Michael wakes me, holds me.
Haunted by his own alternate
reality, he doesn’t leave me alone
with mine. The morphine dulls my pain
but doesn’t make me sane.
He does.
We watch movies all night—
stupid ones, funny ones
and one that makes me cry.
Those tears are the best
medicine yet.
And Michael kissing my
fingertips, lotioning
my itching bare scalp,
sitting on my bed beside me,
dozing on the sofa
when I wake late the next
morning from a sleep touched
only by dreams
of him.
Chapter 7
FOR NOW
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10
Dive Buddy: Alex
Date: 05/05
Dive #: 6
Location: East End, Grand Cayman
Dive Site: Cinderella’s Castle
Weather Condition: perfect
Water Condition: perfect
Depth: perfect
Visibility: perfect
Water Temp: perfect
Bottom Time: perfect
Comments:
“Hey, babe.” I close the door to her room and take up my station standing beside her bed. “Ba-abe. I’m back.” She made me go diving. Saturday, too. She knows I’m dying to get out there in the sun and saltwater—knows I wouldn’t leave her for a second unless she insisted. I feel guilty about that first trip I took. Guilty for diving the North Coast on Saturday. But, today, I don’t feel guilty at all.
Leesie sleeps a lot in the day. Nights are hell. But in the day she makes me go to my hotel to get some decent sleep. Then Saturday she started in on diving. “You need to get out of here. I don’t want you to get sick of me.”
At first I was hurt she thought I could ever get sick of her. But I didn’t resist long. I mean—it’s diving. Sorry. Hate me. I deserve it.
She seemed happier Saturday when I got back. Slept better that night. Sunday I freaked her out by asking if she’d like me to try to find her a Mormon church to go to. Sugar said she could leave for a couple hours—no problem.
Leesie wouldn’t talk to me the whole rest of the day. Had nightmares again that night. At least that’s what Sugar told me. Leesie wouldn’t let me stay.
So when she was calm and sweet again on Monday, I wasn’t going to argue when she brought up me going diving.
“I’ll take you over to the beach when I get back.” I plastered a grin on my face.
She didn’t flash me that smile that makes her so beautiful. Even a tight-lipped smile rarely happens. Her face just looked less sad for a moment. “I’d love that.”
I left her sleeping soundly, and when I phoned from my hotel early this morning, Sugar said she stayed that way all night. I didn’t feel too bad hopping into the burnt orange RAV4 I rented last Friday and practicing driving on the left-hand side of the road like they do here in Cayman all the way around to the East End.
And now, zero guilt.
I’m glad I went.
“Leese.” I press my lips on her forehead. Her scalp is stubbly—like kissing sandpaper, so I don’t do that.
Her eyes open. “Hey.” She purses her lips together until I kiss them. “Scratch my head, okay?” She closes her eyes.
I don’t know if it really itches—she’s numbed up. If she’s drugged enough not to feel her broken collarbone or her ribs smart when she inhales deeply, would she be able to feel an itchy head? I think she likes me touching it. I scratch her head, lightly. She presses into my fingers.
I avoid the gash. She’s supposed to get the stitches out tomorrow. “I have news.”
Here eyes tighten—ready for a blow. “Did you talk to Stan? Are they going to charge me with vehicular manslaughter? Reckless endangerment?”
I move from scratching to rubbing her head. It feels freaky, but I keep stroking it. “Bad guess. Relax. It’s good news. Us news.”
Her eyes open wide. “We’re going to get married this afternoon instead of going to the beach?”
“Better guess.” I laugh. She never gives up. “But not that good.”
She doesn’t respond.
I draw my hand away from her head. “I found a job, and it comes with a place to stay.” The grin I’ve been holding back breaks out on my face.
Her face falls. “How far away will you be?”