CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (2 page)

The hotel doesn’t have wheelchairs like the airport. I follow the porter to Leesie’s room carrying her in my arms. It’s steamy in Cayman so we stripped off our matching Bonnie and Clyde get-away jackets waiting in line at emigration. Leather and the tropics don’t mix. I stuffed them in one of Leesie’s duffel bags when we claimed them. All I’ve got is my backpack.

As I walk down the hall, my feet sinking into the plush carpet, I’m hyper-aware of Leesie’s wounded head pressed against my shoulder, her breath on my neck. Holding her turns me on, and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Half her head is shaved, and there’s forty-two stitches running down into her forehead. The bruising around her eyes is less purple tonight. Her lip is gashed and swollen. She’s banged up, swollen, bruised, wrapped up and plastered, but she’s still Leesie. I still love her. Touching her still makes me want her. “Hang in there, babe,” I whisper into her ear. “We’re almost there.”

“Hurry.” She wouldn’t use the john at the airport. “I’m going to explode.”

Me, too, babe. Me, too.

The porter opens the door, and I follow him inside the hotel room. I take Leesie right into the bathroom and set her down. I whisper so the guy can’t hear us. “Can you manage?”

“Not the snap.” Her eyes find mine, and we step further into the new reality we find ourselves in.

I shake my head and drop my eyes. Careful not to touch anything but her pants, I unfasten her jeans and shut the door.

I get the porter to unlock the connecting door to my room, dump my backpack in there, press ten bucks in the guy’s hand, and usher him out. I pull Leesie’s pain pills from my pocket, shake four out and place them beside a bottle of water on the nightstand next to the bed closest to the bathroom.

Leesie hobbles out of the bathroom. “I’ve never had to go that bad in my life.” Her jeans are pulled up but undone.

I force myself not to stare at the white underwear triangle between the open zipper teeth. “Let me help.” I steer clear of her zipper, but scoop her up for the thousandth time since we signed her out of that hospital room in Kellogg, Idaho. I push the pillows off so she can lie flat and lay her down on the bed—have to stop myself from kissing her neck.

I haven’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time for the past five days. We’re alone in a hotel room for the first time. I’ve got zero self-control left. I move to the bottom of the bed and go to work relieving her of the ugly blue Velcroed boots that cover her wrapped up sprained ankles.

Leesie yawns and stretches her legs. “Are you sure we want this bed? You can’t see the TV very well from here.”

I pull off the first boot. “I’ll move you. Just let me finish.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She swallows. The bottom half of her cheeks and her pale, lovely neck turn pink. “If this is where you want to sleep—”

“Leese.” It kills me to say this. “My bed is in the room next door.”

The heightened color drains out of her face. “I need you here.” Her eyes fill with terror. “You’re not going to leave me?”

I slip off the other boot. “This isn’t the hospital with nurses and aids coming in and out all night. That door is locked. We’re alone.” I stare down at her bandaged ankles and can’t stop myself touching both her feet, caressing them. “I don’t trust myself.” I bend down and kiss her big toe.

“I’m yours now, Michael.” Her broken left hand reaches for me. “Whatever you want.”

I take her hand and kneel down by the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you more.”

“I’ll be okay.” Her grip on my hand gets tight. I know she’s lying. Scared. Of me. “Just,” her voice drops so low I barely hear, “don’t put any pressure on my upper body.”

My mind instinctively flies to solving that problem. Freak. What a creep. It takes all the self-control I thought I didn’t have to let go of her hand, stand up, and back away from her bed. “I promised your dad—”

“You called my dad?” She scowls, but I hear longing in her voice.

My eyes shift to the phone on the nightstand. “Let me, Leesie. Please.”

“No—that’s over.” She sets her jaw and struggles to keep the tears at bay. “They don’t exist. Anything you said to him doesn’t matter.” She takes a deep breath. Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re all I am now.”

I’m hearing what I thought I always wanted her to say, and it’s torture. “Don’t be crazy like this.” Her whole life has been about being a Mormon. There’s no way I can replace that—ruin it. “It does matter.”

No sex unless we’re married, Leese. Those are
your
rules. I remember my conversation at Thanksgiving with her dad.
Almost
isn’t good enough for him. Isn’t good enough for my Leesie. “I’m keeping that promise.”

Tears flow down her face. She says God won’t forgive her for what happened to Phil. Thinks she should suffer—die. If there is a God, I don’t think he’d want that. I don’t know if she’s screwed things up or Mormonism is really that crazed. She hasn’t told me what went on in the cab of that pickup truck. It’s destroying her, though. Whatever it was. When she’s ready, she’ll tell me, and I can help her process the pain of it like she did for me when I felt so guilty about my mom.

Her tears weaken me. I soften my voice. “You lost Phil. That’s awful, but everything else is still there.”

She wipes her face with her broken left hand. “I disgust you now.” Her hand comes to rest on her chest where her engagement ring hangs from my old chain.

“I want you so badly, babe, that I got to get out of here.” I take another step back. “Take your pills. Sleep.”

“You can’t go.” She needs help getting undressed, help taking her pills, help getting under the covers.

“I wish I could stay and take care of you.” My eyes sting, and I have to swallow hard. “But I’m a guy, and I love you.” A sob chokes me a moment. “If I touch you one more time tonight—”

I bolt through the door, slam it shut, lock it. Press my ear to the wood.

“Michael.” She calls me. “Michael, Michael, Michael.”

Chapter 2

PILLS

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 75, REBELLION

I wear out my voice calling
him to come back, wear out
my heart, wear out
my desolation.
“Take your pills, Leese.”
His voice through the door triggers
rebellion. Those stupid pills—
his solution for everything.
Drug her up so I won’t
have to deal with her,
hear her, touch her, kiss her,
love her.

“Take your pills, babe. The nurses
said.”

I sweep them off the nightstand.
The capsules mock me
from the carpet, glowing
in the light he left on
in my room.
I pick up the bottle of water,
grind it open with my teeth,
spit out the lid, drink,
it runs down my neck, slam
the bottle down, close
my eyes against the light.

I invite pain to be my comfort,
seek solace in suffering. If Michael
won’t fill my nights, guide me
into another realm, I’ll linger here
just as he left me, encourage my wounds
to be my companion. My head, hand, ribs,
clavicle, ankles, and heart
seethe, stew,
seer.

I breathe deep, deep, deep.
Pain mounts and rolls as the clock
on the nightstand flicks past number
after number, until hurt is all I know.
I’m lost in its waves, oblivious
to anything but it’s pulsing embrace.

I don’t need you, Michael,
I want to scream.
You and your pills just
get in the way of what’s
most important.
My pain.
I manage to get his chain
with the ring over my head
and fling it at the door
to his stupid connecting room.

All is silent on the other
side of the door.
I hush my moans, writhe
in silence. I don’t want
him in here forcing
those pills down my throat.
I clutch this exquisite ache,
discover a white hot ball
of anger festering deep
in my gut, coax it to bloom
and engulf my guilt,
my sorrow, my shame.
I point it at
my dad, for being too kind, too good,
my mom, for her funeral schemes,
Phil for attacking me over Michael,
and dying, the jerk, how could he do that?
Michael for refusing to take
what he use to beg for.

And God for letting it all happen.
I thought you loved me?
I thought I was your daughter?
How could you?
A familiar comfort tries to slip
into my heart.
I block it—wall it away—
revel in pain and rage.
I don’t deserve that touch.
Can bear the comfort
I know is lost.

I killed my brother.
And that is the biggest
pain of all.

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

Dive Buddy:
Leesie
Date:
04/28
Dive #:
FREE DIVE
Location:
Grand Cayman
Dive Site:
Summer Breeze Resort
Weather Condition:
sunny
Water Condition:
flat calm
Depth:
20’
Visibility:
can’t tell, no mask
Water Temp:
82
Bottom Time:
5 minutes total
Comments:

I wake up to Leesie moaning. I’m lying on the floor in front of the connecting door, drooling on the carpet. Gross. I get to my feet and press my ear to the door. She should still be knocked out. Could she make that noise in her sleep? It’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Leese,” I call quietly in case she’s asleep. “Did you take your pills?”

The moans cease.

“Leese. Babe.”

No answer.

The nurses told me to give her a “sedating dose” to get her through the night. These pills won’t kill the pain like the hospital strength stuff they pumped into her through her IV, but they’re supposed to help. Better than nothing. “The pills are right there, babe—on the nightstand.”

Still no answer. I wait and wait. Maybe she went back to sleep. Or she’s stifling her suffering, gritting her teeth so I can’t hear, fighting back the agony.

“Leese. Answer me.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then a muffled moan meets my ears.

I grab the door handle, turn it, start to push it open, but something stops me cold.

I’m just going to give her the pills.

No.

I won’t stay. I won’t touch her.

No.

I can do this. Trust me.

You can’t.

So I have to leave her like that all night?

Yes.

In pain?

Yes.

I want to move, but I’m frozen. I stand glued to the door listening to her moans mount louder and louder until Isadore sweeps down on me, and I’m lost to wind and waves. My mom’s screams mingle with Leesie’s cries—freak—it seems like hours.

Gray dawn light fills my hotel room when Isadore releases me. Whatever stopped me earlier is gone. The door opens easily. I walk through, try not to look at Leesie writhing on the bed, try not to hear her moan. I find her pills on the floor. Freak, she chucked them. Get four fresh ones out of the brown prescription bottle. Sit on her bed and slip my arm behind her back to raise her up. Put the drugs in her mouth. Pour water into the mix. She tips her head back and swallows. Falls against me.

I settle her down on the bed, grab pillows to prop up her hand and feet, slide onto my knees beside her, cradle her hot, sweaty, broken hand in both of mine. “Freak, Leesie, I’m sorry. I had to get out of here last night. I couldn’t live with myself if the first thing I did when I got you alone was like rape you.”

She closes her eyes and considers my confession. “It wouldn’t,” she manages to whisper, “have been rape.” Her eyelids lift, and she drills me. She’s angry.

I bow my head over her hand. “You’re hurt—not thinking straight. It would have felt like rape.”

“That’s what”—she pauses to gather each word out of the pain haze that quakes her body—“I need”—her hand breaks away from mine—“now.”

I raise my head and try to find a way in through her eyes. “No, it’s not. You need that good old Leesie magic you poured all over me. Remember?”

Her eyes retreat. “That’s over.” She inhales and exhales, gathers another phrase. “It’s—gone.”

“No, it’s not, Leese.” I take back her hand, clasp it in mine. “It’s here. Protecting you—from me. It kept me on the other side of the door.”

“You wanted to come in?”

“All night babe.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I wanted to be with you. Really with you.” I let go her hand and hide my face in the bedding.

With an obvious effort, she strokes my head. “That’s what I want.” Her voice catches. “Love me your way.”

I raise my head, sit back on my heels. “This isn’t about love.” I don’t want to continue, but I can’t stop. “You want to sleep with me to prove that you’re lost, a sinner—mound up the guilt. Add to the pain. I’m not helping you with that.”

She clenches her fist and pounds the bed. “You don’t understand.”