CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (9 page)

“You and Alex,” she shouts, “that freaks me out.”

“What?” I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, shocked. That came out of nowhere. “Alex?”

Leesie has her knees pulled up to her chest. She huddles there hanging onto them like a broken butterfly. I walk towards her.

“Don’t send me home.” She blinks fast. Her eyes have gone pink. “I’ll be good. I won’t drink tea.”

I stop halfway to her bed. “Why would I send you home?”

She drops her face to her knees and mumbles.

I take another step closer. “What?”

She lifts her face, squeezes her eyes shut. “You’ve got her now.”

“Who?” I take another step closer.

“Alex.”

“That hurts.” I pound on my chest like some kind of stupid ape. “Really hurts.”

Leesie raises her head. Tears stream down her face. For the first time since the accident, I see the girl she sees in the mirror. Shaved head. Ugly scar. Bruised eyes hiding a secret that rips her to pieces. Two long strides close the distance that separates us. I sit on her bed and surround the Leesie bundle perched on it with my arms and whisper, “How can you even begin to think that?”

“Is she pretty?”

“No.” I hand her a tissue and kiss her temple.

Leesie blows her nose. “Is she stacked?”

“She’s all muscle. You’re stacked compared to her.”

“Doe she have long hair?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I couldn’t tell you. I think it’s short. I didn’t notice.”

“Really?” She sits straighter and looks pleased.

“Really.” I kiss her moist cheek. “Are you going to be okay now? No more crazy ideas about Alex?”

“Why are we moving in there?”

“Because I got a job and”—I hug her—“I think you could use a friend.”

She relaxes against me. “I’m sorry. I’m stupid.”

“Idiotic.” My lips find hers. “Better?”

She nods her head and kisses me again.

“Trust me.”

“I’m trying.”

If I keep telling her that, maybe she finally will.

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #81, MOVING WITH MICHAEL

The clothes I wore here are clean,
folded on a chair. Sugar coaches
me getting the bra on by
myself. I wince, and she sees it.
“You missing the morphine?”
I grit my teeth and pick up my jeans.
She puts her hand on mine, hands me
a package from her and the girls.
“Too hot here for denim.”
I unwrap the gift. I’m getting
dang good with my broken hand.
Can do almost anything if I enlist
my teeth. I shimmy into a short,
soft T-shirt dress that hits me
mid-thigh. Yellow as the sunshine.
The top is striped with turquoise
to match the jeweled water.
No zippers, no buttons, no snaps.
I hug her and cry.
“Hush now, we’ll see you on
Wednesday. Don’t forget your
exercises.” She watches me
get my sling back on by myself,
hands me a cute yellow baseball hat
to match the dress. She winks.
“Make him take you shopping.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Good idea.”

I wait in the garden, breathing
in gardenias, wondering if
his mom knows my brother yet.

Michael arrives, red-faced and muttering
about customs tearing his bags apart
hunting for drugs. “You should have
shaved.” I’m jealous that the hair
on his face is already longer than
the itchy growth
that shadows my head.
“I like your hat.” He helps me to my
feet. “And the dress is way hot.”
He strokes the few inches of bare
thigh exposed between cast and hem.
His fingers send pulses up my legs.
I inch the skirt higher and will
his hand to follow. The fingers retreat.
He shakes one at me like I’m three
and naughty. “Let’s go.”

We drive along Seven-Mile Beach,
through the honking, packed
downtown core onto a wild
highway that hugs the coast.
All the way the water’s too turquoise
to be real. Looks painted, fake—until
a wave rolls up and crashes
into the coral coast, spurting
white spray high in the air
through funnels in the cliffs that amplify
the power. I want to stop and watch,
but Michael’s late. Working
the PM boat.

We pull into the resort parking lot.
Rectangular buildings built
to deflect storms. Three stories.
Colored a dark echo of the water.
Not much after Seven-Mile swank.
He grabs my bags. “Most of my
stuff is gear. I’ve got a locker down
by the dock.” He totes my duffel bags
up all three flights of stairs
and bursts in through a door at the top.
I’m dizzy and hurting by the time
I catch up.

“Hey, Leese. This is Alex.”
He disappears into a room.
An over-tanned girl
with uber-short hair
gives me a hug.
“Welcome to the hovel.”
I feel the muscles in her
arms. She wears a rash
guard over a bikini.
Her legs are solid muscle—
like a skinny weight lifter.
She lets me go.
“You’re late,” she yells
at Michael like a boss.
“Our boat leaves in fifteen minutes.”

I find Michael in my new room.
It’s dominated by a giant
king-sized bed.
Alex hollers on her way
out the door, “They’re bringing
our new beds in an hour.
Can you let the guys in?”

Alex and her last roomie shared?
That makes me nervous.
What did Michael leave out?
“Is she gay?” I need to know.
What if I say the wrong thing?
Michael shakes his head. “Brokenhearted.
Her boyfriend took off.”
“One of the defectors?”
He nods. “Gabriel says she sleeps
on the floor. Can’t stand
to get back in that bed.”
“The other woman was here, too?”
“She was with Seth.”
“Poor Alex.”
“Yeah. You’ll be good for her.”
He kisses me good-bye.
“Unpack. You get half
the closet and these drawers.”

I wave with the last
tidbit of endurance I possess
as he evaporates from the room,
collapse on the forbidden bed,
close my eyes, drift
on the pain that radiates
out from my collarbone,
dwarfing every other malady.
I dream I’m in the pickup
screaming at Phil, defending
my Michael. Tires screech.
Glass explodes into pellets.
Metal shrieks.
Again.

The buzzer ringing and a loud
hammering knock shaking the door
startle me awake.
I hobble fast as I can to open it.
Two guys. Two mattresses.
“Where do you want these?”
I lead them to the room.
They shift bedding off the big
mattress and pick it up.
I retreat into the kitchen
to get out of their way.

A major ripped guy bursts from
the other bedroom, clothed
only in boxers—glares at me.
“What the eff’s going on?”
I manage to squeak,
“Just moving in,” around
the nervous shock that clogs
my thought process with,
Flight, flight, flight.
He looks at me like I’m
circus freak meat.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Leesie.” More squeaking.
He heads into the bathroom—
doesn’t close the door.
I decide it’s time to enjoy
the view from the balcony.

The moving guys finished fast,
wave good-bye.
I’m chicken to go
back inside. I’m alone
in this dump apartment
with a total stranger.
But Michael knows him.
Maybe? Trusts him.
Who knows?

It would serve Michael right
if this boxer jerk attacks me.
He stuck me here with the creep.
I hobble back in the apartment
prepared for the worst.
No sign of the guy.
His door’s closed again.
I trip over cots, towels, blankets,
and a pulled out hide-a-bed
hurrying to make it back to my room.
Pull the door tight. Lock it.
Go in the ensuite bathroom.
Lock that door, too.
Slip my right hand free
of it’s sling, splash water on my
burning neck and cheeks,
pull the chain with my ring
over my head, fumble to get
it unlocked, slide the ring off
and jam it onto my left hand,
third finger so I can wave
it in that guy’s face if he
comes near me, wishing
Michael was here
to take me floating again.

I sit on the toilet and gather
strength to face my afternoon’s labors.
I move at last—unlock the door,
unzip my first duffel bag
scared of what I’ll find inside—
muddy damp refuse from
the side of the mountain?
No. The clothes are fresh laundered,
folded sloppy-sweet like a guy did it.
Jeans and sweatshirts. Useless here.
Two pairs of capris, my old one-piece
swimsuit, ugly work-out shorts, socks, panties,
a couple of embarrassing worn out
double A bras that have always been
too big. Lots of T-shirts.

As I put the T’s in the second drawer down,
I pick up a shirt that’s not mine.
Navy. Guy cut. BYU logo across the front.
I see it on Phil the day before we left.

Drop it.
Panic.
Breathe fast.
Sweat.
I kneel down,
stare at it,
willing it to move.

It doesn’t
so
I
do.

Chapter 9

MATES

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10

Dive Buddy:
Guiding
Date:
05/09
Dive #:
7
Location:
East End, Grand Cayman
Dive Site:
Barrel Sponge Wall
Weather Condition:
sunny
Water Condition:
3’ surge
Depth:
107’
Visibility:
100+
Water Temp:
82
Bottom Time:
49 minutes
Comments:

Felt bad dumping Leesie in that trashed apartment and bolting, but boats don’t wait. Maybe this isn’t going to work. She didn’t look happy when I left. Not that I expect her to look happy. Lost. Scared. Wiped out. Hurts to look at her.

I thought about buying us our own condo down here or even a house, but we can’t stay there alone if we’re not married. We could get married, but I’m convinced she’s so eager to tie the knot because I’m off limits. Marrying me is as taboo as shacking up with me. It wouldn’t be “major sin,” but when I asked her before Christmas, she insisted I believe all her Mormon stuff and join up before she’d even consider putting on my ring. She’s so screwed up now. She’s got to be thinking a lot straighter before we get married. What if she comes out of it in a year and hates me forever because I took advantage of her when she was desperate?

I don’t think she’ll ever be a hundred percent like she was before. I’ll take fifty—twenty-five. Heck, I’d be pumped if she just came clean about the accident. I’m crazy to think she’ll be close to that by the end of summer. Whenever I think of getting married “tomorrow” like she wants, I get this dark feeling. I’m not going to be the evil infidel who carries off the virgin. I’m not going to let her do drugs or smoke. Freak. I won’t even let her drink a stupid cup of tea. So what do we do? No clue.

And then all of a sudden these guys need me and Alex needs a roommate. Perfect answer. Almost. Me dumping her there and running off to dive—even if it’s work—is so not perfect. I beg her to trust me and then do this to her.

I grab my bag of gear out of the back of the RAV, tote it down to the dock, and hand it into the boat to Alex.

“Have you got everything you need?” She shades her eyes with her hand and squints.

“No idea.” I step down into the dive boat, take my bag, check it to make sure Claude actually sent all my gear. It looks good. I give Brock, an Aussie dude who’s captain today, a thumbs up, and Ethan and Gabriel, who will leave later on the other boat with Cooper, cast off the ropes. I catch one. Alex gets the other. Brock motors towards the break in the reef and the wild three foot swells beyond it.

He guns the boat through the cut and we’re into the pulsing ocean. Our divers hang on tight. “This is calm for East End,” Brock yells down to them.

Alex and I get the clientele geared up and thrown over-board. She gave me all the jocks. Nice. We go deep first dive.

I push my group to the edge to get down to my favorite swim-through at this site. We wind through the coral cave that narrows into a tube. One of the divers gets hung up. I send the others ahead—fin back and help his useless buddy untangle the dude’s hoses. The group misses the turn that takes them up to the top of the reef. I get their attention banging on my tank with a heavy metal d-ring I keep hanging on my B.C. I motion them to return and follow me. They maneuver around in the tight space. Eventually, we’re, one by one, carefully rising through a chute forty feet to the top of the reef.

We finish off the dive, toss around in the boat until we motor back inside the reef where it’s calm enough to wait out the interval without all the divers puking their guts up. So far no one’s blown chunks. Good day in East End.

I change over all the gear while Alex cuts up fresh fruit and passes out bottles of water. I figure I owe her. I don’t mind doing the heavy work.

Second dive is shallow, strong surge, and too short. A couple of my divers suck through their tanks too fast. I let the rest explore this easy site on their own, get the goons topside and safe on the rocking boat, and when I go back the rest are surfacing, too.