CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm) (8 page)

Incredulous. That’s the only way to describe the face she turns away from me. “Not
another
old girlfriend.”

I nudge Leesie’s chin back in my direction. “Nope.” I kiss her. “Relax, babe. It’s all good. Alex is new here. She’s cool. She told me about the job—set the whole thing up for
us
.”

I try to kiss Leesie again, but she tilts her head to the side to avoid me. “I bet she did.”

I thought we were beyond jealousy. I nuzzle the side of her face and whisper in her ear. “I talked about you—my fiancé—the whole freaking time.”

She relents and lets me kiss her.

“You, my coddled princess”—I kiss her again—“get to share the master ensuite with Alex, and I’m stuck on a cot in the living room with three other guys.”

She kisses me back and goes for the jugular. “So I’m only moving in with
six
hot dive instructors?”

I tickle her for that.

“Don’t, it hurts to laugh.” She bats at my hand and pumps her morphine a couple shots.

I sit on the bed’s edge and gather her up in my arms. “Just remember who you’re with, babe.” I suck on her lower lip to remind her.

We make out for awhile, and then she rests her cheek on my chest.

I rub her back. “So we’re good?”

“It’s seems weird to move in with a bunch of strangers.”

“They aren’t strangers. They’re divers. I met them today.”

“My mom would—” She stops, struggles a moment. “Okay.” Her voice wavers. “If that’s what you want to do.”

I hold her closer. “I know it’s not ideal—kind of a zoo.”

Leesie shifts so she can see my face.

I smile encouragement. “Alex is great. She’s got advanced rescue and some EMT training. She said she’d be happy to help you if you need it.”

Leesie manages to smile back. “I should be able to take care of myself.”

“Cool.” I seal the deal with a kiss on her forehead.

She pulls her eyebrows down, accusing. “Aren’t we going for a walk on the beach?”

“Have you got enough of that stuff in you?” I motion to her IV paraphernalia.

She pushes the morphine button three more times. “Give it ten minutes.” Her eyes close.

“Good. We can talk. I think it’s time, babe. You can tell me. It’ll help.”

Her eyes fly open. Her face squeezes into a knot. “What about ‘never’ don’t you understand?” She turns her face to the wall.

I sit back, my head in my hands, defeated again. It’s me, babe. You can tell me. It hurts that she doesn’t want to share the accident with me. I know this is dumb and selfish, but I’m doing everything I can for her—spending a chunk of change to make this work, and she still won’t talk about what happened in that pickup cab before the accident. That’s what eats her. I know. She knows. All the nurses and morphine pumps and casts and stitches won’t heal that. I’m here. I can listen. I can help her. And she won’t try.

I’m a fool. I admit it. It’s way too soon. I go find Sugar, so she can unhook Leesie and help her get dressed. Smile and play like nothing happened. She’ll tell me someday. When she’s ready. I’ll be the one.

LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 05/06 2:58 AM

Kimbo69 says:
Leesie living with six guys? That’s a picture I can’t process.

Leesie327 says
: Ick. You make it sound like they’ll be passing me around.

Kimbo69 says:
You don’t have a “Thou shalt not share an apartment with guys” commandment?

Leesie327 says:
That’s an old Leesie rule. It doesn’t matter now.

Kimbo69 says:
And Michael doesn’t have a problem with it?

Leesie327 says:
I’m sharing a room with Alex.

Kimbo69 says:
Right. She sounds fishy to me.

Leesie327 says:
Michael says she’s like one of the guys.

Kimbo69 says:
But she jumped to get him hired.

Leesie327 says:
When they are down two dive masters it puts all of them at risk—too much diving. They could get bent. It’s dangerous.

Kimbo69 says:
She went after him for her health?

Leesie327 says:
She didn’t go after him.

Kimbo69 says:
She convinced him to move in with her.

Leesie327 says:
I’m moving in with her.

Kimbo69 says:
Yeah. That’s a nice touch.

Leesie327 says:
Michael and I are way beyond that petty stuff.

Kimbo69 says:
And I’m not? Mark and I aren’t? We’ve been together way longer than you have.

Leesie327 says:
Our situation is different. No one else exists for either of us.

Kimbo69 says:
Liar. You are insanely jealous.

Leesie327 says:
Shut up.

Kimbo69 says:
Be honest.

Leesie327 says:
Okay. I’m scared. I’m scared to leave here. I’m scared to unplug my morphine pump. I’m scared she’s pretty.

Kimbo69 says:
You’re pretty.

Leesie327 says:
I’m hideous.

Kimbo69 says:
Michael doesn’t think so.

Leesie327 says:
He has eyes.

Kimbo69 says:
That are glued on you 24/7.

Leesie327 says:
But what if she has long hair?

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #80, I’VE GOT YOU

First day off morphine starts
sore—even after I swallow
their pills. “You’re job, young lady”—
the doctor hands me a full bottle
of pain-a-cide—“is to take these pills
only for pain—not comfort, not anxiety.”
His golden Cayman tones echo off the
sunny walls. “Don’t skimp at first.
Taper off as soon as you can.”

I hurt too bad to eat breakfast—or even drink
my smoothie. I manage not to puke
my guts up but just barely.
The sore gets worse and worse,
when I breathe, when I move, when I think,
but no way I’m telling because
he’s moving in tomorrow, and I’m
going with him.
Period.

Michael gets excited when they
unwind the figure eight bandage
that’s trussed my collarbone in place.
“Keep your right arm in the sling.”
Sugar moves it gently back in place.
“But you can move it to dress and bathe.”
Michael rushes over to the tourist trap
across the street, comes back with
a bulging, plastic bag. “Let’s REALLY go
to the beach.” The dressing on my nose
now is more of a brace than a cast.
He tosses the bag on my lap.
I pull out a hottest pink, tropical print
bikini. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
My ribs are unwrapped, but still
black and blue.

Doesn’t he remember my rules?
Bikinis are contraband.
Is this a hint? Does he recognize
I’m lost? Or is he as clueless
over bikinis as he was me
moving into an apartment full of guys?

He digs in the bag and pulls out a t-shirt.
“I got this to keep you decent—
matches mine.” He bought himself less loud
swim shorts and another Cayman T-shirt.

My day’s been too long already. If only
I could lie in bed with the shades pulled down
counting the waves of pain. But
I’m fine. Remember. Nothing wrong
today or tomorrow.
Sugar helps me change, wraps my hand cast
in a bread bag. “Don’t get your face wet
or sand in your boots.” She just washed them.
They stunk. She sprays my head with
sunscreen and ties a scarf around the stubble.

I limp half way, Michael gets impatient,
carries me the rest of the way.
He sets me on the sand, spreads
out a straw beach mat, trimmed
in hot pink to match my t-shirt
draped bikini. (Feels like sin to wear
it—even hidden away like this.)

We lie together in the sun.
His thigh touches mine. I squint
my eyes against the bright light.
“I forgot.” His hand goes
into his pocket. “One more present.”
He puts sunglasses over my eyes that
have faded from purple to greenish black.

We laze in the sunshine.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Moving?”
“No.” He raises up on his elbow.
“You’ll feel better, babe.
It’s me—I’m not going to judge you.”

I ignore him, lie there until sweat coats me.
“This t-shirt’s too hot.” He took
his off—why can’t I?
His hand reaches down and unvelcroes
the straps on my boots.
“What are you doing?”
He pushes off my scarf. “We’re going
swimming.”
“No we’re not.”
“No waves today. Come on, babe.
I’ve got you.”

He picks me up, still wearing the shirt,
carries me into cool, silky
water deep as his chest.
His arms loosen. I clutch him.
“Take it easy. This will feel good.”
He makes me lie flat on my back
one arm in my sling, my good hand
holding my broken one on top of
my stomach.
“Fill your chest with air.”
I inhale.
“Hold it.”
I’m beautifully buoyant in the
salt and sun and Michael’s arms.
“Relax. Put your head back.”
I obey—cool ocean blueness
laps around my body, easing
away heat and a measure of ache,
calming me as I lie embraced
by it’s subtle rhythm.
“Saltwater therapy.” His lips
find a patch of my stubbly head.
“You need more of this.”

“I could lie like this forever.”
“That can be arranged.”

If he knew what a beast I am,
would he say that? Would
he float me in the waves?
Or swim away—farther
than Thailand, farther than
forever.

Chapter 8

FORWARD STEPS

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10

Dive Buddy:
Leesie
Date:
05/09
Dive #:
last one at this site
Location:
Grand Cayman
Dive Site:
Rehab Center
Weather Condition:
stormier than I knew
Water Condition:
choppy
Depth:
I can’t tell exactly
Visibility:
clearing
Water Temp:
chilly
Bottom Time:
20 minutes
Comments:

I drop by the rehab center on my way to pick up my bags from the airport. Claude finally sent them. I got his email last night. He’s been busy. Shorthanded. I’m not easy to replace. French bull.

The air freight plane landed at 6 AM. The airport’s on our route to our new digs in East End, but I don’t want Leesie to have to tough it out waiting if there’s problems at customs.

Sugar’s serving Leesie breakfast. Tea and toast. Guess her stomach’s not up to her usual fruity smoothie. Shoot. She usually lets me finish it off.

Tea? Gross. And she can’t drink it. One of her rules. You can’t get a decent can of Coke on the entire BYU campus. She said caffeinated pop is a gray area. It’s not officially part of the rule—commandment. Lots of Mormons drink it, but my Leesie was a purist.

She starts to say something to Sugar. Stops herself. Picks up the spoon and stirs the cup.

“Leese.” I nod to Sugar as she leaves. “Don’t drink that.”

She takes a spoonful, sips. “Damn.” She drops the spoon onto the table that swings over her bed and touches her lips. “It’s hot.” Great, now she’s swearing.

I point at the cup in her hands. “What are you doing?”

“Sugar said it would settle my stomach.” Her tongue makes “bleck” motions. “How do you drink this stuff? Even with honey it’s nasty.”

I cross the room. “What’s wrong with your stomach?”

“Just a bit queasy.” She focuses her eyes on the teacup. “I’m fine.”

I fill her in on the morning’s agenda. “I’ll be back soon. Are you excited?”

She plasters a fake smile on her face. “Of course.” She picks ice out of her water pitcher and plunks it into her tea.

“What’s wrong?” I need her to be pumped about this. She’s still holding the accident in. I don’t know if she’ll ever be pumped about anything again if she refuses to deal with it.

She concentrates on stirring the cup. “Can you hold this up for me? I’m afraid I’m going to spill it.”

“No. I told you.” I take the teacup. “You’re not breaking the rules with me around.”

She scowls. “Who made you my judge?”

“You did.” I take the tea into her bathroom and dump it down the sink.

“I was supposed to drink that,” she yells, shrill and tense.

“Don’t be like this, Leesie,” I call and turn the water on to rinse out the sink. “It freaks me out.”

“Do you even care what freaks me out?”

I shut the water off and stare into the mirror. “Of course I do. That’s
all
I care about.” What is it, babe? What’s made you like this? I miss the old Leesie more and more every day.