CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (3 page)

“Yes. I do. More than you know.” I sit on the bed, clasp her face between my hands so she can’t look away. “I refuse to be that guy.”

“You won’t love me?” She reaches to kiss me, but I pull back.

“I won’t destroy you. If that’s what you want, find somebody else.” I let go of her face, but I don’t move away.

She closes her eyes. Won’t look at me. Won’t open them. Won’t talk. I watch her face go slack as the drugs get into her system. Listen to her breath steady.

Freak, where’s her ring? Not around her neck like when I left her. I search her covers, check the nightstand, the floor by the bed, under it. Nothing. Widen the grid. Find it in front of my door smashed into the plush carpet. I must have stepped on it coming in here. How did it get from her neck to here? I put it safe around my own neck.

My stomach rumbles. I don’t know when I last ate.

I check my pocket to be sure I have a room key, tiptoe to the door that leads out into the hall, ease it open, and close it safe behind me. I double check to make sure it’s locked.

I notice myself in the elevator mirror, rub the drool off my chin, and finger comb my hair. It’s greasy. I stink. My mouth tastes sour. A shower sounds so good. A long hot one. Leesie needs to get cleaned up, too. How the freak am I going to manage that one?

I stop at the front desk. “Is there somewhere close I can get food?”

“Room service?”

I shake my head.

“We’ve got two restaurants. They open in”—she checks her watch—“about two hours.”

My watch reads 5:15 AM. Great. “What about a drug store or 7-11?”

“Two blocks down. Turn right when you leave the hotel. Go out the front entrance.”

“Great, thanks.” I muster up a smile.

She seems to appreciate it.

“I need a nurse. Do you know where I can get a nurse?”

She gives me a weird look. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“A nurse.” I frown. “Like from a hospital.”

She glances over at her computer monitor. “We’ve got a doctor on call. Would you like us to page him?”

“No. We don’t need a doctor.” A doctor wouldn’t take Leese to the bathroom or get her cleaned up and dressed. “I need a nurse.”

A second girl at the desk butts in. “You can check with the rehab center across the street. It’s a couple blocks past the convenience store.”

“Rehab center?” My brows scrunch together. “You mean like for drug addicts?”

“No.” She shakes her head, leaves her stool, and walks over to her colleague. “My uncle went there after he had back surgery. He was ready to leave the hospital but not to go home. They make them do physical therapy. A bunch of doctors and therapists work there. And nurses. I’m sure there are nurses. They taught him to get dressed and made him exercise. Stuff like that.”

The confused knot in my guts begins to unravel. “And the nurses are nice?”

She nods her head. “My uncle liked them. My aunt not so much. My mom got an earful every time she called.”

“Why?”

She giggles. “Something about sponge baths.”

“She got jealous?”

“Acted like that.” She shrugs. “My mom said she was scared out of her mind.”

I can relate. “Thanks. I’ll check it out.” I turn to leave. “Which way again?”

They both motion with their thumbs sticking out. “Right.”

I grin. “Thanks.”

It’s fresh dawn cool outside. Not muggy hot like last night when the cab dropped us off. The air smells like ocean. Two blocks and I’d be there. The edge of the water. There’s got to be a beach. If I run, I could be there in minutes—seconds. Saltwater, soothing, cool. I won’t stay in for long.

I do run.

Stalk through a beach front condo resort like I own it. Strip down to my boxers on the sand. Leave my jeans and shirt crumpled on the sand. Race into the foam of a retreating wave. Slide onto my belly when it gets knee deep. Stretch my arms forward and pull them back. Kick. Submerge. Freak, it feels so good.

I swim out until I find a clump of coral in this sandy desert, take a deep breath, another and another—swim down to the coral, wishing for a mask. Two tiny fish dart in and out of the holes in the stony coral. Ignore me. I surface, lie on my back as the sun rises.

I love Cayman. I haven’t been here since my parents died. I can’t wait to dive. I never thought I’d be tough enough to come back here without them. But it feels right to be here now. Leesie can do her open water dives. Finish her cert with me training her.

Leesie.

Freak.

I wonder how long until she can dive. Broken collar bone. Cracked ribs. The cast on her hand. I hope they say it’d be good therapy. We’ll get snorkels and fins—wrap her cast in plastic. I’ll bring her down here every day as soon as they take that thing off her nose.

They. Who is they? I got to get back to figuring that out.

I swim twenty feet down to the ocean floor again, wave good-bye to the fish, drag myself free of the water, let it swirl around my feet while I put my dry clothes on my wet body.

I retreat to the hotel and turn left since I’m coming from the opposite direction, find the snack place, slam three power bars, and a quart of juice. Grab some for Leesie and head up the street searching for that rehab place.

It’s right where they said it was. A low sturdy building between two high-rise hotels.

I try the door. It’s open. How long have I been gone? Oh, crap. It’s past 7 AM. I don’t want Leese to wake up alone writhing in pain.

A woman at a huge mahogany desk sitting in the middle of the entry way stands up. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” I make such a mess of describing Leesie and me and what we’re doing here that any sane person would have called the cops.

She doesn’t bat an eye—launches into fees and services and expectations.

“Can I bring her in this morning? Right away?”

“Of course.”

Chapter 3

REINFORCEMENTS

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #76, MR. SUNSHINE

Michael steers a wheelchair
into my room, waking me.
He pours pills down my throat.
“Come on, babe. We’re going
for a walk.”
I’m not talking to him
ever again. He’s wrong.
I’m right. And he’s going be sorry.

He picks me up, plops me
in the chair. “Ow, watch it.”
I scowl, licking wounds.
“Sorry, babe, does it hurt?”
He squats beside me and kisses
my cheek. “How do you like your chariot?”
He puts the chain with my ring
back around my neck,
ties my headscarf do-rag style,
straps on my stupid footgear.
I raise my eyebrows.
“In case you want to wade.”
He pulls a bottle of OJ out
of a grocery bag swinging from
his wrist and hands it to me,
kisses me when he bends to twist
the top off. “Forgive me?”

I can’t hate him when
he’s like this. The Ice Queen
relents. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” He kisses me again.
“You’re stuck.”
My eyes swim. “No, Michael.
You’re stuck. I’m sorry I did this to you.”
He gets down on his knees and
lays his head in my lap.
“I don’t ever, ever, ever
want to hear you say that again.”

I can’t answer or I’ll cry.
I stroke the top of his tangled head.
It’s damp. “What’ve you been up to?”
“I just got out of the ocean.”
“Saltwater therapy?”
“Yeah. It’s the best.”
“Earth to Michael—I can’t
go in the water.”
“But you can get close.”
His smile—so big and beautiful—
coaxes the corners of my mouth to
ease up for a moment.

His head tilts toward the bathroom.
“Do you need to go?”
I shake my head and sip my juice.
“You got up by yourself?”
“Twice.”
“That must have hurt.”
I look away from his pity.
“Freak, I got to use the john.”
He dumps granola bars
in my lap. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into his room.
I sip juice, nibble at a bar,
my stomach in knots that
won’t admit food,
listen to the sink, then the shower.
He returns scrubbed, shaved,
and glowing, garbed in garish
purple and lime green swim-shorts
and an “I love Cayman” T.
My jeans feel cemented
to my body. “No fair.”
“Jealous of my snazzy outfit?”
“Your clean hair.”
“We’ll take care of yours after
the walk—I promise.”
“You’re going to undress me?”
“Shh. It’s a surprise.”

The beach is glorious.
Caribbean blue water,
even brighter than I remember
from the Keys. The wheelchair
gets bogged down in the deep,
dry sand. Michael powers
through it to firm damp beach,
pushes me right up to the surf’s
edge—a tiny wavelet swirls
around the wheels,
the sun catches the diamond
hanging from my neck.

He tips back the chair
on its two big wheels,
ignores my squeals
and pushes me into the water.
The turquoise sea rushing in and out
uncovers a childish delight—simple,
pure, a bit tarnished and battered—but
I can feel. He keeps me out there
until his arms can’t hold the chair
up anymore.

Then those arms, moist with sweat
and ocean spray, free me from
confinement. We lie
on the damp sand, me
on my back gazing up at the flawless
blue sky. Michael on his side
staring at my face.
He leans over and sucks ever
so gently on my unblemished
lower lip. He stops too soon.
“Is my breath gross?”
“Yeah. You’re a mess. Sandy
now, too.”
“What are you going to do
about that? Dunk me in the ocean?”
“If that’s what you want.” He scoops me
up and runs towards the water.
“Stop it, Michael.” I pound on
him with my cast—yelp at how
much that hurts.
He pulls up short.
“How about nurses?”
“What?”
“I found you nurses.”
“You’re sticking me back
in a hospital? No way.”
“No hospital—I promise.”

He takes me to a short cement building
set down in a tropical garden—hot pink
bougainvillea spill from pots,
palms, high and low, fan out in all
directions, orange and yellow
flowers carpet the ground.
Inside—cool, clean elegance,
marble floors, wood-paneled walls,
paintings of ocean sunrises.

My room’s a plush prison—
white bed draped with gauzy netting
like a room in a swank resort.
“You’re leaving me here?”
“Nurses, babe. They can take
care of you. I can’t.”
“You didn’t even try.”
“You need therapy and wound care,
pain management. I can’t do that.”
“How long?”
“At least stay long enough
to get cleaned up.”
He picks me up from my chair,
sniffs in my direction. “You stink.”
“Now that’s romantic.”

He lays me on the bed.
I sink into a world of soft
feather luxury.
He leans over me with
encouragement leaking
from the corners of his grin.
“They’ve got a therapeutic
whirlpool you can soak in
all morning. Wouldn’t that feel nice?”
He’s starting to convince me.
“What are you going to do?”
He blushes under his tan.
“Oh, my gosh—
you’re going diving?”
He bends low to give
me an enormous kiss.
“Please?”
“As if I could stop you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Get out of here.”

The smile that slips onto my face
as I watch him leave me
knows only him, only here,
only this moment.
Today, it’s enough.

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10

Dive Buddy:
guiding
Date:
04/28
Dive #:
lost count
Location:
Grand Cayman
Dive Site:
Fish Eye Fantasy
Weather Condition:
sunny
Water Condition:
slight chop
Depth:
87 ft.
Visibility:
80 ft.
Water Temp:
82
Bottom Time:
42 min.
Comments:

I wish I could go out to the East End—best diving on the island. North is good, too. Lots of eagle rays up there. But those guys will be long gone by now. I’m close to Seven Mile Beach. Lame dives by Cayman standards. Excellent compared to Thailand.

I borrow the rehab center’s phone and call a guy we used to charter. Great. He’s got a boat going out at 10 AM.

“It’s a private charter, though.” He sounds like he’s trying to get rid of me. “Tough luck.”

“Wait.” I offer something no dive captain can resist. “Look, I’ll haul tanks, guide, set up all the gear. Whatever it takes. It’ll be the easiest day you ever spent on the water.”

“I don’t know, dude.”

I pull out my secret weapon. “Are there females in the party?”

He pauses—checking the list most likely. “Four.”

“Bring me along, and they’ll be back.”

He laughs. “You can guarantee that?”

I’m so glad Leesie can’t hear this. “Just stating the facts.”

“This is Michael Walden—Mike’s son?”

“Uh-huh.”