Unbroken Connection (21 page)

“Let’s go,” Leesie whispers. “They sing this for the guys who’ve just got mission calls.”

“I like this one. Good beat.”

The first verse ends and about twenty guys yell, “Let’s baptize.”

Leesie goes stiff. “They aren’t supposed to do that.” She drags me away. “Stupid boys. They always ruin everything.”

I feel like she just showed me the enemy playbook. I laugh. “You almost had me there.”

“It’s not funny. The Spirit was so close. You felt it. I could tell.”

She leads me past the administration building onto the perfectly manicured quad. I don’t admit my emotion during the earlier hymn. I’m not sure if I really felt anything other than how precious she is to me.

She grips my hand tight. “I’m reporting this. They were supposed to stop that.”

“Why?”

“It makes converts seem like numbers. Notches on a tally stick.” We sit on the edge of a low cement retaining wall that runs along a bed of faded flowers. “When they are people—sons and daughters of God—like you.”

“Me? I’m a son ofGod?”

She turns to me and touches my face. “A precious son of God.”

“Isn’t that Jesus?”

“He’s our older brother. We all lived together in a big family in Heaven. We knew each other then. I know it. I promised to find you.” Her lips hold mine. “I’m not losing you again.”

“You won’t.” I pull a white velvet box out of my pocket and press it into her hand.

She drops her head and opens it.

I slip the simple solitaire engagement ring—brilliant cut, 1.1 karats, excellent clarity and color—out of the box and slide it on her left hand, third finger.

“Come to Thailand with me. It’s no good when we’re apart.”

Her body starts to shake.

“Finish this semester. I’ll wait around until you’re through finals. Let’s go see your parents and Gram and then fly to Thailand. We can find that island.”

Tears overwhelm her eyes and slip down her cheeks.

Something inside me—hope? dreams? I don’t know—deflates. “You won’t do it?”

She holds her left hand with my ring on her third finger over her heart, presses on it with her other hand and sobs, harder and harder.

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #63, RINGED

“Please, Leesie, say, yes.”

His diamond cuts my palm

as I try to keep the shattered pieces of my heart

from scattering shards throughout my body.

If this pain gets into my bloodstream,

can I continue to exist?

“All that back there is you, Leese.”

His back pocket produces a folded

piece of paper. I take it.

“I love that you’re like that, but babe,

this isn’t scuba. I can’t learn a few

skills and all the sudden I’m different.”

I unfold the paper, hold it to catch

the light beaming up at a tree behind us.

Utah wedding license.

His name and mine.

He slips onto one knee,

kisses my hand.

“Will you marry me?”

Hysteria takes over.

“Sure, why not.”

I gulp back another sob.

“Let’s go find my bishop.”

“For real?”

“Of course not.”

He stands. “Freak, that was mean.”

He’s right. It was, but I can’t find

the words to say, “I’m sorry,” again.

My sorry’s are used up, the remorse well dry.

I want him to hurt like I’m hurting.

I want him to understand these tears.

I pull the ring off my finger—

hold it out to him. The spotlight

catches the diamond and dazzles flash

in my eyes.

“Maybe you can get your money back.”

He takes it. Silent.

The pain in his precious gray eyes

will haunt me forever.

I run full out—as fast as I can in Sunday spikes,

stop at my dorm door, double over panting, touch

the sticky blood oozing from my battered heels,

can’t get the tears to cease.

Absolutely no control.

I hide in my room.

The flood rips open.

All night, sleep refuses

to soften the ache.

At dawn,

I phone his room.

No answer.

Chapter 22

COOLED

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

D
IVE
B
UDDY
: Gram

D
ATE
: 12/10

D
IVE
#:—

L
OCATION
: Teacup

D
IVE
S
ITE
: Gram’s house

W
EATHER
C
ONDITION
: snowstorm

W
ATER
C
ONDITION
: icicles

D
EPTH
: 1½”

V
ISIBILITY
: nil

W
ATER
T
EMP
.: -16 F

B
OTTOM
T
IME
: a week

C
OMMENTS
:

I want to fast forward my life. Dementia would be good. I look over at Gram nodding on the sofa with the remote in her hand.

She still remembers everything.

I thought Leesie would be calling every minute. I can’t get emails or go online here. My computer is in Thailand. Teacup doesn’t have all night internet bars. Maybe I should drive to Spokane. Or call somebody I know here. DeeDee? Troy? Right.

I can’t call Leesie. Not before I read all those emails she’s probably sent.

Freak. What would I say?

I’m stupid.

You’re stupid.

Run away with me.

That pretty much says it.

I’ve got my ticket back to Thailand. Three days before her last final. I was going to fly her home. Now, I don’t know how she’s getting here. Catch a ride with somebody? Yuck. I don’t want her doing that.

I guess I’m a coward for bolting, but I had to leave. I didn’t want to say the next mean thing. Didn’t want to chase her down and escalate—wound her back. Nasty was the only thing in me at the moment. I had to get away before I spilled all that ugliness all over her. I didn’t want to hear what those wounds would make her say.

When my mom got, “irrational,” as my dad called it, he’d take off—head for the dive shop. Sometimes with me. He didn’t badmouth her. “You can’t do that, son. Not if you really love her.” He’d buy her something—anything—from a three dollar plastic clip to a new wetsuit to a trip to Grand Cayman or a cruise in Belize.

He’d wink at me. “Helps with the apology.”

Maybe I bought Leesie too much of the wrong thing. Dad always got it right. I wanted the ring to be right. I didn’t think about what Leesie wanted—needed.

I open the little square box and look at the ring. There’s no light today—the stone is lifeless. I snap the box closed, head down to the Variety Store, and buy a long thin gold-colored chain, cheap but strong. Back at Gram’s, I lock myself in her pink bathroom, string the ring onto the chain, and fasten it around my neck. The ring flashes for an instant in the warm yellow bathroom light before I hide it under my shirt.

I close my eyes, place my hand on my chest, and press the ring’s imprint into my skin.

Gram’s at the door. “Michael? The French toast is ready.”

Good old Gram. Her ultimate weapon of comfort.

I eat six pieces.

There will be an email in Thailand. Waiting.

She’ll forgive me.

I’ll forgive her.

It’ll be cool.

I was a jerk.

But that idiot elder—may hell be real just for him—made me feel like some loathsome swamp creature running off with their best vestal virgin.

Freak.

That’s exactly what I am.

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 12/16 12:00 PM