Authors: Angela Morrison

Tags: #Social Issues, #Dating & Sex, #Christian, #Friendship, #Juvenile Fiction, #Sports & Recreation, #General, #Religious, #Water Sports, #Death & Dying

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BOOK: Taken by Storm

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chapter 33

MERRY CHRISTMAS

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8

Gram’s moving around in the kitchen early. She promised fresh cinnamon rolls for Christmas breakfast. She’s not doing much better than me—thinner than ever, so frail. Whenever i try to get her to rest, she shoos me away, cooks food i can’t eat, doesn’t eat hers. Listening to her working in the kitchen, knowing she’ll be on her ancient feet for hours today trying to make me happy, makes me feel like a guilty creep.

i roll out from under the pants quilt. Maybe she’ll let me punch the dough for her. Didn’t i like squishing it between my fingers when i was a kid? i barely remember.

The phone rings. i pick it up thinking maybe it’s Stan calling from Florida, forgetting the time difference here. Who else would call us? One of Gram’s old ladies? Me and my parents usually spent Thanksgiving and most of Christmas break at the condo, wearing our seven mils, diving deep wrecks and shallow reefs. It would be good to hear Stan’s voice, get an up-to-date dive report. i crave something that proves my old life isn’t just a dimming fantasy that crashed into Isadore. If Stan’s still real, i can go back.

Gram answers, too. She says, “Hello,” before i can.

“It’s me, Gram. Leesie.”

i grip the phone tighter—afraid she’ll get away—and silently fill my chest and gut, blow it out in a steady whisper.

“Oh, honey, it’s good to hear from you. Michael’s still asleep.”

i suck air again. Controlled. Silent. Don’t let her hear.

Leesie’s voice flows around me. “That’s all right. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

No, babe, i do. i so want to talk to you.

i miss Gram’s comment. Leesie’s talking again. “Are you guys okay today?”

“Well, my. Of course, we’ve got the tree up and all decorated.” Gram’s voice gets quivery. “We’re fine.”

Breathe in. Blow it out. Thin stream. Don’t drop the stupid phone.

“I wanted to invite you out here. Like Thanksgiving. But—”

“I know. And it isn’t your fault.”

“It is.” Now Leesie’s voice quivers. “And I’m sorry.”

i close my eyes, inhale through my nose, trying to get the scent of her hair through the phone.

“He’s just going through a tough time.”

“Are you guys going anywhere?”

That stings. Still, i strain to suck in every wisp of her.

“No. We’ll be here.”

“Right.”

She sounds so right. Now everything’s wrong. i drown in wrong—it clutches at me, and i can’t get free of its muck. i long to let go, sink, be done.

Gram doesn’t say anything. Maybe she can’t. i tip my head back so air fills my throat, flows into my nasal passages.

“Guess I better go. I was just”—Leesie’s voice breaks—“thinking about you.” She pauses, then whispers, “And Michael.” She sniffs. “Don’t tell him I called.”

“Goodbye, honey.” Gram hangs up.

i stay on the line. So does Leesie. She sniffs again. “Is that you?” A soft whisper i can barely hear.

i hold my breath. One, two, three long minutes. Then nothing but dial tone.

chapter 34

HAPPY NEW YEAR

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8

Gram and i take the tree down. She bugs me all afternoon to carry the boxes to the basement. i stay hidden in Dad’s room. Easier to just shut the door. Block her out. Don’t think about her and her fake Christmas tree crammed into an ancient box that’s held together with cracked, yellowed tape or the dusty box of ornaments and ugly colored lights. Don’t think about anything. Not even the glossy brochure i found crumpled in my coat pocket yesterday. i ripped it to pieces. We should be there now. Leesie and me. No, just getting home. Freak. i didn’t even cancel. The credit card Stan sent me got a useless workout last week. Weird to be so loaded it doesn’t matter. i won’t be for long if i keep blowing it like this. Stan will pitch a fit.

Damn her. i pick up that shampoo back in its spot on my nightstand. She’s still stopping me. Why didn’t i get on that plane? Use my ticket at least. i need to stop moaning around. Am i that whipped? No way. Not anymore. Not today. Diving with her would have been such a drag. A brand-new diver panicking at every blade of sea grass? Why would i waste my gas on that? i should just flush this crap shampoo down the john. i head for the bathroom.

Get stopped by my bedroom door.

Freak.

i put the bottle back in its place. i resist the urge to open the lid and inhale. Maybe tomorrow i can use it all up. Wouldn’t want more waste.

i get to work planning trip after amazing dive trip. i research the Brac, Maui, Guam, even the Similans off the Burma Banks. i find a ten-day trip to Palau. The boat looks fantastic.

On her way to bed, Gram raps on my door. “I know you’re not feeling well, but can you please take the Christmas tree down before you go to sleep? I can get the decorations box in the morning. I’m tired of the mess.”

i don’t answer, just lie on Dad’s old bed, huddle cold under the pants quilt, and stare at the crack on my wall trying to imagine taking one of those trips by myself. The spidery branches of the crack turn into flashes of lightning. i hide my head under the pillow trying to muffle the thunder. Isadore takes her time. She knows i’m not going anywhere.

i wake crammed into the corner of the bed, hanging on to my pillow, not knowing where i am. Moonlight filters through the curtains and illuminates the crack on the wall. Gram’s. Dad’s old room. i turn on the light. Maybe Gram’s got some wall gunk downstairs.

On my way to the basement, i bang my shin on the big box with the Christmas tree in it. i grab the awkward box and drag it to the top of the basement steps. i tip the box on end, slip around behind it, and pick it up around the middle. i try to be stealthy carrying it down the creaking wood stairs. Stupid. Like Gram can hear me with her hearing aid out.

i stash the tree next to the shiny gear bags full of scuba equipment that i bought for me and Leesie. i pick hers up and pitch it into a dark corner. i carry mine upstairs. Maybe i’ll dump it out on my bed and try it all on. i need some hooks for my new BC. Dad was a master at hooks. i could order some. i take the stairs two at a time with my gear bag bouncing against my leg.

The decorations box accuses me from the middle of the living room floor. Poor Gram. i’m such a beast. i wing the scuba bag on my bed and whip the box down the stairs.

The basement is fitted out with big wooden shelves that Gramps built for Gram. Home-canned peaches, pickles, and jam line up in rows on the middle shelves. Boxes fill the upper and lower shelves. i try to figure out where the decorations box goes. Is it the empty spot on the top shelf center or bottom right? i find a place big enough and shove it in.

Two white boxes catch my eye. They seem new. No dents or dust. i turn away and then rotate back, stare at them in the dim light of a dusty 40-watt bulb. Dad’s name labels one. Mom’s on the other. The return address is a mortuary. i can’t touch them, can’t move, just stand there, fixated.

My hand reaches out and drops, reaches again, just brushing the corner of Dad’s box. i bring my other hand forward, force both to grasp a corner of the box. i close my eyes and ease it off the shelf. Heavy. Dense. i rest it on my chest, wrap my arms around it, and lean back. i can’t leave him down there with the chokecherry jam and old peaches. i carry Dad upstairs, holding my breath, place him gently in the middle of the living room floor, and run back downstairs for Mom.

i want to pound on Gram’s door, wake her up and demand an explanation. Why didn’t she tell me they were there? Why did she stick my parents’ ashes down in the basement? How long have they been down there? What do we do with them now? i picture Gram’s white hair down around her face, her puckered toothless mouth, her dentures soaking on the nightstand, the blurry look in her eyes as she strains to understand me without her hearing aid. It’d give her a stroke.

i sit on the couch and stare at the boxes, move them up onto the coffee table, back to the floor, sit next to them. i want those boxes to talk, wonder if i could recognize anything inside. Is it all just gray powder? i have this sick urge to open them and plunge my hands into their ashes. i’m crazy to find something the furnace didn’t incinerate. A filling. My dad’s dive watch charred and black. Time spins away from me, sitting on the floor next to my parents, going from one extreme to another, unable to touch the boxes, wanting to open them. i keep going back to waking Gram but decide that’d just be two of us freaking. i remember how she said, “Cremation,” back when we decorated the tree. No wonder she hid them.

i wander back to Dad’s old room, search through the top drawer for my sleeping pills—freak, the bottle’s gone. Gram? i stretch out on the bed, stare at the ceiling, flip onto my stomach, punch my pillow, roll onto my side, and find my crack in the wall. Tonight it glares, and i sure didn’t find wall gunk in the basement.

i sit up before Mom’s screams start, don’t bother with a light, grab my laptop from the desk, and sign on. Please, please, please.

Maybe there is a god. She’s there.

chapter 35

DUST TO DUST

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 01/03 3:12 A.M.