CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (32 page)

we can weather them all

clutched in each other’s arms.

Epilogue

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM # 207, THIS DAY

As I stand gowned in white

satin and lace glowing

with thousands of seed pearls,

shaking hands and hugging

a blurr of happy people

parading through the same gym

at our stake center next to the Spokane Temple

where Michael and I first danced, first fought,

I’m not sure if this is real or one of the thousands

of dreams I’ve conjured of this day.

Next to me, there’s Kim, maid of honor,

BYU roommie bridesmaids and Stephie

looking too grown up in her matching dress.

Mom and Dad anchor the line wearing

truly happy expressions.

My bouquet is laced with pure white gardenias

in memory of Michael’s mom. I know

she’s here, smiling on us.

Michael beside me—very real in a black tux

with dark green leaves and white blossoms

fragrant on his lapel.

The guys next to him—shaking hands

and looking after Gram, who presides

in a big, cushy chair—

are companions from his mission.

Yeah. His mission.

After his baptism—

intense and beautiful in it’s simplicity

and purity, Michael glowing

and handsome all in white,

like he was at the temple this morning,

my dad in the water immersing

him with the same power, same hands

that gently lay eight-year-old me

backward in the font

and brought me out all new,

Gram, Stephie, Mom and me

in the front row holding hands and crying—

Michael floated four feet above the ground

until we went down to Utah

at August’s end.

He bought a condo in Orem.

I moved into an apartment near BYU

with Cadence and Dayla from last year.

Sundays trying to go to his ward and mine together

were crazy until I got called as Relief Society president

and couldn’t go to his at all.

He preferred his ward full of beauty school girls

and UVU students to my nerd-stocked congregation,

so he went by himself, and I hid my jealousy

until it boiled over in an ugly fit.

He took off for Cayman—stayed away three

long, lonely weeks, came back worried.

“It isn’t the same here—as in Cayman.”

“The gospel isn’t true in Utah?”

His face gathered into a knot.

“Just feels different.”

I nod—he’s right. “There’s nothing

like a branch.” Even the one

I grew up in. “More like a family.”

Is that what he searched for?

What he found? Not me? Not God?

He saw trouble storm my eyes,

kissed my hand like he always does,

and rested his cheek on my head.

“Be patient. Give me time.

There’s way more to being a Mormon

than I thought.”

I took the hint, backed off, let him breathe,

lost myself in classes and callings,

smiled when he took off to dive all the hottest

spots in the South Pacific, made the most

of the time we spent together,

and loved him wherever he was,

physically or spiritually.

He started classes at UVU after Christmas,

business stuff for when he and Gabriel

invest together in a dive op.

(They are here, by the way,

Gabriel and Alex, sitting

at a table with Kim’s Mark,

and Jaron and his wife,

who’s expecting their second,

eating chocolate dipped strawberries

and black forest cake.)

Michael liked school more than

he expected, enough to miss it

when we went home May to August,

where I worked with Dad on the farm,

helped Michael move Gram into

the local Care Center—private room

furnished with her own dresser,

chair, living room flowered rug,

and that picture of Michael

with his mom and dad in a giant hug—

bit my tongue every time Mom

lectured me like I was fourteen again,

and hung out with Stephie

who’d grown solemn and sad

over the past year.

Michael got ordained an elder

in August, and we made

wedding plans for Thanksgiving

if the temple was open.

At our first meeting with President McCoombs

about going to the temple,

he shook Michael’s hand

and said, “I’m impressed, Brother Walden,

to call you on a mission.”

“We’re getting married,” I reminded

him, sure he’d lost his mind.

He held up his hands, pleading

innocence. “I’m merely the messenger,

Sister Hunt. The Lord wants him to serve.”

Michael got this look on his face

like he’d just seen the First Vision.

“You’re not going to say yes?”

He jumped at my voice like he’d

forgot I exist. “Yeah. I am. It’s perfect.

Maybe I can get close to what you deserve.”

“Two more years?”

His face went pale. “That won’t be easy.”

He turned back to President McCoombs.

“Can she go, too?”

“Not with you.”

“I know—I’m not that green.

She’s twenty-one in December.

Does your inspiration inbox

have a call for her, too?”

So he went to Brazil, and I spent

eighteen months in the parts

of the Geneva mission that are in France,

caught in a visa war between the church

and the Swiss government.

My French is good.

His Portuguese is better.

When Jaron came through the line

earlier, he, Michael and groom’s men

companions, all got jabbering—hope it wasn’t

about me.

We shake the last hand, hug

the last hug, eat cake and throw

flowers. I avoid Kim who will give

me advice about my wedding night

that I don’t want.

My mom helps me change into an

ivory suit for travelling, cries

as she undoes twenty satin-covered buttons

down my back. I hug her, cry, too,

sense she’s missing Phil.

“I wish he could have been here.”

She closes her eyes and lifts her face

towards heaven. “He was. Don’t worry.

He was.”

I run through a shower of birdseed

to Gram’s old car that Michael doesn’t

have the heart to sell.

It’s covered in Oreo’s and

whip cream “Just Marrieds.”

I hug Stephie and Dad,

Michael tucks me in the front seat,

shuts my door, shake’s Dad’s hand,

who pulls him into a hug.

“Take care of our girl, son.”

“I will, sir.”

“Dad.”

Michael hugs him again.

“Sure, Dad.”

We zoom away.

At the end of the lane

that leads from the temple and church

to Highway 27, Michael hands me

an airplane eyeshade.

“What’s this?”

“Humor me.”

Our honeymoon is a huge

secret surprise.

I play, put it on.

“Thanks, babe.” He kisses me,

slips into an intensity