Taken by Storm

by Angela Morrison

  Hold her? Sleep with her? No way. i get out of there, find my sweatshirt, grab up my coat, and split before she comes after me. i almost puke walking home.

  Sex didn’t ever used to make me feel like this. Evil—like i cheated. Leesie’s worse than real ghosts. Tendrils of her wind around my insides. Not guts. Deeper. No matter how hopeless it seems, how much i try to hate her, how angry i am, it’s still all her. Messing with DeeDee isn’t going to change that. Makes it worse. And my mom and her respect mantra—i betrayed that, too. She’s dead, and i can’t even be loyal to what she taught me.

  Life’s never this freaked underwater. You just breathe in and out. Watch the fish. Float. Kick into the clear Caribbean blue that’s so full of sunshine it glows. Nothing like the stormy blue, dark and dangerous, that tugs at me tonight. i get kind of desperate. Try to make-believe i’m still broken like that first day DeeDee came on to me. Then i make-believe i liked it. Make-believe i want to do it again. Until i get home and find Leesie’s shampoo sitting on the nightstand in my dad’s old room.

  i fish the mangled condom wrapper out of my pocket, flatten the foil the best i can, try to fit together the rips, and lay it gently beside the slender bottle of Leesie. Damn.

  i descend into my bed, curl away from the wall and its comforting crack, stare at that empty wrapper. i lie there choked on the verge, dying for salt water even if it’s my own tears, wanting to dissolve into nothing, disgusted with the disease i’ve become, hating myself, hating DeeDee, hating my parents for leaving me alone like this. Desperately needing Leesie. i don’t believe in her heaven, but hell meets me smack in the face.

  i get creeped out, can’t stand myself or the stink of DeeDee clinging to me. No salt water comes to wash it away. i can’t even cry. Leesie always said i needed to. i believe her now. Maybe i could with her hand back in mine. But she’s gone. She’ll never come back.

  i pick up her shampoo, cradle it to my chest, ease open the lid, and hold it to my nose. Not enough. i pour a small puddle of pearly white liquid into my hand, rub it all over my face, my neck, my chest.

  i rush to the shower, shrug off my clothes, turn the water on hot. i dump Sweet Banana Mango Leesie on my head, work it up into a huge lather that foams down my face and body. The aroma is strong in the steamy heat. i twist the water off and stand there dripping with Leesie-scented lather. i start venting. Inhale. Exhale. Gut. Chest. Throat. Head. Pack. i repeat the cycles until my fingers tingle, hold my breath. Two minutes. Three. Four.

  Nobody comes to me. Not my mom. Not my dad. Not Leesie. Nothing.

  The soap seeps into my closed eyes and stings. i fumble with the faucet, turn it on. Hot water swirls my last hope of Leesie down the drain. Isadore steps in, holds me tight. i ride her waves all night.

  chapter 31

  FEELINGS

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8

  This morning i’m grogged out, moving slow. Last night, i finally swallowed another two sleeping pills to get Isadore off my case. They didn’t knock me out, so i took two more.

  My alarm goes off. Gram gets me out of bed, pushes me out the door to school, and before my brain checks in, i’m at my locker with my hands full of DeeDee.

  i scrape her off me. “That’s enough.”

  She puts her arms around my waist and slips her hands in my back pockets. “You were awesome.”

  “You know, DeeDee”—i peel her off me again—“last night was fun, but—”

  “Tonight will be even better.” She kisses me, and i almost gag.

  i shove her away. “Back off.” My head hurts, and my mouth tastes gross. i stare over DeeDee’s head at the books on my locker shelf, trying to remember what class i have first.

  “What’s going on?” Her shrill voice drills into my aching brain.

  “Can you keep it down? i’m not really awake yet.” Before Isadore left, she hurled a chunk of driftwood right through my forehead, i keeled over off the Festiva’s deck, and then i was back in my scuba-diving dream with the dead bodies. Instead of Leesie pulling me out, the angry dudes in buckskin riding giant salmon chased me over the edge of Niagara Falls. i’m still falling.

  “I wore you out? Thought you could take a lot more than that.”

  “Listen, DeeDee.” i put up my hands to fend hers off. “We had a good time. Enough. Now leave me alone.”

  She almost sneers. “You’re dumping me?”

  “We weren’t together. It was just one night. How can i be dumping you?”

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” DeeDee pushes me hard in the chest.

  i stumble back, bang my elbow on the locker next to mine.

  “She got to you again.”

  i register something in DeeDee’s over-mascaraed eyes, and somewhere in my hazed-up brain i figure i’ve been a major jerk. i need to be nicer to her. “It’s me. i’m a mess. i’m sorry.”

  “I can help fix that.” She squirms in between me and my open locker.

  “No.” i step away from her pawing hands. “It doesn’t help.”

  “But she did? I actually sleep with you, but I’m not good enough?”

  “Shhh. Please.” i drop my head into my hands and press on my throbbing temples.

  “Don’t shush me. You creep.” She shoves me again.

  i take her wrist so she can’t jab me. “Look, we both got some, right? No hurt feelings, okay?”

  “Feelings?” She spits the word right in my face. “What would a guy like you know about feelings?” She rips her arm away from me. “There’s always hurt feelings. What do you think I am?”

  Even grogged out from sleeping pills, i know enough not to answer that one.

  “Well, I’m not. I liked you a lot.” She storms away. Wish i could get Isadore to do that.

  i stare at the books in my locker, trying to get my eyes to focus, feeling like a mound of steaming crap. Had the chicks i messed with at parties and then didn’t call felt like DeeDee? Did they all have feelings? They acted so cool. She’d acted so cool. Was it all a big lie? Did they feel just as whacked as i did when Carolina dumped me? How could DeeDee possibly think what we did last night was making love? It felt like love with Carolina—made her more and more precious, until i couldn’t go a day without holding her. That’s love. i hate to admit it, but Mandy made me feel like that, too. That’s the oneness i wanted with Leesie. Does DeeDee feel like that about me now? Am i hurting her, just like Mandy hurt me?

  After class, DeeDee shadows me back to my locker. “Please, Michael. We make such a good couple. You owe me, Michael.”

  All day it’s like that. i can’t shake her. i stop caring if i hurt her or not. She asked for it, practically forced me into it. She can take what she gets. Besides, because of her, i have no hope of getting Leesie back. Ever. Last night didn’t mean anything to me. Even though DeeDee’s putting on a huge drama-queen-guilt-me-out-of-my-socks-make-me-feel-like-a-creep-so-i’ll-be-her-steady stage show, it didn’t mean anything to her, either. But to Leesie it’ll mean loads. She’ll detest me—already does, now more than ever. i can’t even tell her it was a lie anymore. And here’s DeeDee all over me all day—making it truer and truer. i don’t look in Leesie’s direction, can’t take seeing how much she hates me staring straight in my face.

  DeeDee even follows me down to Gram’s. i let the door swing shut on her.

  i collapse on dad’s old bed, sleep off the pills. It’s dark out when i wake up. i wander into the living room, sit on the couch, zone out the window at the snow. Thick. Cold. White. Reflecting Gram’s colored Christmas lights. The sun comes up. Gram tries to get me to go to school—last day before break. No way. Another day with DeeDee in my face. Forget it. And Leesie, if i saw her right now, looking at me with plastic, made-up eyes, it’d kill me. So i spend the day with my old friend Isadore, clinging to my mangrove buddy, helpless to my mom screaming, “Michael, Michael, Michael.”

  chapter 32

  MESSED UP

  LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

  POEM
#40, PHONE Call

  I should not have picked

  it up the third

  time it rang,

  should not have held it to my ear,

  should not have listened as she bragged

  how good he

  is in her

  bed

  with her

  body,

  while I cry and pray and try to

  repent,

  sitting in the branch president’s

  red-floored furnace room office

  confessing how badly I wanted to

  sin,

  listening to healing words speak

  calm and love and forgiveness,

  while I fight the desire his body seared onto mine

  and make my promises anew with a tiny cup of

  water

  and a crumble of

  bread,

  while I strain to feel a tremble of the

  spirit . . .

  my michael, my boy, my

  love

  lay with her.

  I hang up the phone, but it rings again.

  I pick up the receiver

  and slam it down over and over

  and over, but it doesn’t splinter,

  so I search for something heavy to

  smash it.

  How many tons is the pickup?

  dad’s grain truck?

  the combine?

  I’m panting wild to run over the

  plastic box that houses her sultry voice,

  splinter the wires and filaments

  that carry her to my ear,

  ram the poles, tear down the wires—

  hijack the tractor and go digging for bundles

  of white high-speed cables

  that put her too real too solid

  flesh in between him and me

  forever.

  LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 12/22 11:41 P.M.

  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.