CAYMAN SUMMER (Taken by Storm)

by Angela Morrison

  guarantee I won’t scare him.

  That’ll be our life, our test.

  With enough love, enough faith,

  enough understanding it won’t

  destroy us.

  He traces the scar

  that snakes through

  two inches of wispy hair

  coating my head.

  “Let’s get to that temple

  of yours. I want you forever.”

  I kiss him until he

  can’t breathe as Cecilia

  screams outside.

  She isn’t the first storm

  we’ve faced.

  She won’t be

  the last. I pray

  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 cl
oses 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

  we’ve always held back,

  has a hard time getting

  free of my blindfolded clutches.

  “We’re not going far tonight are we?”

  “Hush.” He pulls out onto the highway.

  Turns right. I think.

  I slide over next to him—

  gotta love that old bench seat—

  chew on his ear while he drives.

  He pushes me away.

  “Get over there and buckle

  your seatbelt, or we’ll end up

  in the back seat of this old clunker

  after all.”

  That sounds like a great idea, but

  I obey—don’t want to ruin

  all he’s crafted for our first time.

  Where ever we’re going,

  whatever it looks like,

  whenever we get there,

  whether he’s chartered a boat

  or rented an island, whether

  it’s his condo in the Keys,

  Cayman, or Thailand or

  somewhere brand new,

  it’ll be the perfect

  consummation

  of the forever

  we pledged

  to our Lord

  and each other

  in His holy house

  this day.

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME 14

  Dive Buddy: Leesie

  Date: three years from Cayman

  Dive #: 1

  Location: secret

  Dive Site: secret

  Weather Condition: nice night

  Water Condition: a little bumpy

  Depth: not saying

  Visibility: forever and ever

  Water Temp: no comment

  Bottom Time: no comment

  Comments:

  As we drive away from the reception, man and wife, alone for the first time since we vowed to love each other eternally, I try to stay calm, cool, but my heart—that I used to be able to slow at will free diving—beats so hard it pulses in my fingertips. My palms sweat. I grip the steering wheel way too hard. Good thing Leesie’s blindfolded. If she saw what a wreck I am, she might want to trade me back in.

  She’s sniffing the air like a bloodhound, trying to figure out where we’re going. I cut through a subdivision to disorient her.

  “Can I let my hair down?” She wore it up all day. It’s long again. She grew it out the whole time I was serving in Brazil learning to be the man of God she deserves. I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be there, but serving the Lord taught me so much. I’ve got my own cylinder of consecrated olive oil swinging from my key chain and know how to use it. I felt like I’d stepped through a time warp when Leesie met me at the plane with her hair long and gorgeous, catching the sun like the first time I surprised her staring at me in physics.

  I pat her knee. “If you promise not to peak.”

  “That’s big of you. The hairpins kill.” She holds the blindfold to her eyes with one hand, slips the elastic loose with the other—pulls pins out and throws them at me.

  “Ow! Are you peaking?”

  She shakes her freed hair, combs her fingers through it, finding more pins, and shakes her head again. The car fills with the smell of hairspray and a tiny hint of her sweet banana mango shampoo.

  “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  “Who me?” She slips the blindfold elastic back around her head and folds her hands in her lap.

  We stop at a red light. “Get over here, then.”

  She’s in my lap in a second. We make out until the car behind us blares its horn. I keep her close, drive the rest of the way with one hand and my arm around her, worrying she’ll recognize the highway we’re on, but she chews on my fingers instead of playing bloodhound.

  I turn off the highway onto a gravel road, relieved we’re almost there. When I slow way down and turn right onto a bumpy dirt road, she sits up straight. “This isn’t the airport.” She elbows my ribs. “Roll down your window.”

  I obey. Pines lining each side of the road invade the car with their sharp, clean scent.

  She sniffs. Sniffs again. “This is our lake road—at Windy Bay.”

  I hold my breath.

  “It’s washed out. Dad said—” She hits my thigh. “You got my dad to lie?”

  I move my hand from her shoulders to the steering wheel.

  Even in good condition this road is dicey. I’ve got my hands full managing it.

  “We’re going to our lake?”

  Yeah, babe. Don’t you remember our first date here?

  “We’re camping”—her voice rises in pitch—“tonight?”

  I wish for a video camera and bite my cheeks to keep from losing it.

  “Did you rent a swank RV?” She fiddles with her blindfold. “Buy a cool sail boat?”

  I keep silent.

  “Not a tent, Michael. Please.”

  As soon as the car stops, she rips off the blindfold and climbs out over me. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees the lights. She spins around. “You did this?”

  My eyes move from her to the cabin and back to her astonished face. “I wanted to do something for your family—to make up for—you know.” A pre-fab log cabin on their empty water front lake lot won’t bring back their son, but it makes me feel less guilty for stealing their daughter.

  Leesie bows her head and wipes her eyes.

  I close the distance between us in a stride and scoop her up like I did when she was hurt. I haven’t picked her up like this since then. I sense she’s awash in the same memories that course through me.

  “I love you.” She snuggles her face against my neck.

  I inhale her hair and carry her towards the lit cabin.

  “Wait.”

  “What?”

  “I need my shoulder bag from the back seat.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a surprise, too.”

  I carry her back to the car, get the bag, slide the strap on my shoulder—all without putting her down.

  I carry her into the cabin. “Do you want a tour now?”

  “No.” She chews on my neck.

  I head upstairs.

  “Was that Gram’s couch in the living room?”

  “I couldn’t pitch her stuff. Your dad stored it at the farm when we rented out Gram’s house.”