Unbroken Connection

by Angela Morrison

  I relax in the warmth of the love

  that pours off him.

  Try to send something back—

  but there’s nothing there

  except a mangled lump that

  used to be Michael.

  “It’s okay, Leese.”

  His lips find mine.

  “Give it time. It’ll”—

  one more kiss—

  “come.”

  My eyes smart, and I bury

  my face deep in the front of his shirt.

  How can I do this?

  Eternity is an awful long time

  to spend with someone you

  don’t

  love.

  Chapter 30

  AN ERRAND

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

  DIVE BUDDY: Claude

  DATE: 04/22

  DIVE #:—

  LOCATION: Hong Kong

  DIVE SITE: Mormon temple

  WEATHER CONDITION: muggy

  WATER CONDITION: humid

  DEPTH: surface

  VISIBILITY: hazy

  WATER TEMP.:?

  BOTTOM TIME: 22 hours

  COMMENTS:

  Claude is marrying his girlfriend tomorrow. We’ve got twenty-two hours to celebrate his last gasp of freedom. That’s how he puts it. Seems to me once you belong to each other, you’re more free than ever. They’ve been together for three years, but Claude cheated whenever he got the chance. He says that’s over. The whole Suki thing made him take a look at how he treated his Thai girlfriend.

  Still, he wanted me to fly up to Bangkok with him and go to the sex shows in the red light district. I refused, so we’re in Hong Kong for one day. Not a bad flight. Only a few hours. We fly back tonight at midnight. He gets married at 10 AM and then it’s back to work—double work for me. Claude’s dad gave him the week off for a honeymoon.

  Claude drags me all over Hong Kong. The place is a cement jungle full of short, busy Chinese, and thousands of yellow taxis. We’re riding in one on the Kowloon side on our way to the bridge so we can ride a tram up Victoria Peak, eat at some place called, “Bubbas” and stare at the city lights before we head to the airport. I see a sign that says, “Mormon Temple.”

  “Stop.”

  Claude gives me his best perplexed Frenchman impression.

  I lean forward and point to the sign for the driver.

  He nods his head. “Can. Can.”

  I pat his shoulder, and he maneuvers his taxi so he can turn back, drives a few blocks and then stops in front of an ivory colored stone building—maybe eight stories high with long, narrow elliptical windows striped down the front and their gold angel statue on top. I turn back to Claude. “I’ll see you at the airport.”

  Now he’s mad, but I ignore it.

  I have to see this place.

  A brown-veined granite wall protects the temple’s entrance from the street. Most of the wall is a fountain, interlaced rectangles that jut out from the smooth wall. Water trickles gently all along the face of it and pools in a blue tiled basin. Chinese characters—undoubtedly spelling out the church’s name—stretch across the center of the fountain wall. Two arched silver doors with a round window of mottled glass flank the fountain. Big stone planters filled with manicured trees, tropical bushes and tiny pink, purple, and red flowers on either side of the doors complete the streetscape.

  I’m drawn to the door. It’s decorated with straight shiny ridges that curve at the top to emphasize the arch.

  And it’s open.

  I walk cautiously through it.

  Granite columns guard a plaza that leads to a gold and glass revolving door. There aren’t extensive grounds and gardens like the Utah temples Leesie showed me, but the fountain is reversed on the inside of the wall. The falling water mutes the traffic zooming by just outside. More perfectly manicured planters terraced in varying heights filled with a tropical garden expand the small space into a calming oasis.

  I sit on a stone bench in the corner by a small potted tree, trimmed bonsai style. I tune into the shush of falling water, put my hand where Leesie’s ring hangs, and close my eyes. The peace here is palpable, but intertwined in that is a shudder of dread. Leesie? The dread returns. Something’s happening to Leesie?

  A short, round man in a white suit, white shirt, white tie, white shoes—white hair even—comes out of the temple doors. He sees me and smiles, makes his way slowly to my corner, and sits beside me.

  “Good evening. I am Brother Gilbert.”

  “My name is Michael. Is it okay that I sit here?”

  “Of course. Have you been to a temple before?”

  I nod.

  He leans forward, rests his forearms on his thighs, and clasps his hands together. “With a girl who wants you to take her inside some day?”

  I nod again. “But I don’t even believe God exists.”

  “But she does.”

  Nod.

  “Where is she now?”

  I hunch over like he is. “I’m not sure. I’m trying to stay out of her life. She deserves—”

  “But you still love her.”

  “How do you know?”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I was in your shoes a long, long time ago.”

  “I can’t help loving her—thinking about her—wanting to see her again.” I turn my head so I can read his eyes. “That’s not wrong is it?”

  “No.” His eyes agree. “Painful—but not wrong.”

  “I got this urgent feeling when I sat down here. It’s not going away. I think she’s in trouble. Maybe she needs me.”

  “Ah, my son.” He sits up and folds his arms across his chest. “You might not believe in God—but God believes in you. Sounds to me like he’s got a job for you.”

  “For her?”

  He nods.

  “What should I do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get on a plane—now.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why are we still sitting here?” He stands up and holds out his hand.

  I stand and clasp it. “What if I get there, and it’s nothing. She’s fine. I’ll feel like a fool.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “No.”

  “Search your heart. Is she fine?”

  The haunting dread morphs to terror. “No.”

  “Then find her, son. Save her.”

  “Me? I can’t save anyone.”

  “You might not believe it—or even like it—but the Lord’s chosen you to help her. You won’t have peace until you act on these feelings.” He squeezes my hand and escorts me to the gate.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles at me, and his old eyes fill with water. “Bring her back here when everything’s all worked out.”

  The bustle of Hong Kong at dusk engulfs me. I flag down a taxi, get to the airport, and weasel my way onto a direct flight to LA that leaves within the hour.

  Chapter 31

  NIGHTMARE

  LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 04/22 10:00 PM

  Kimbo69 says: So—let me get this straight…he’s madly in love with you…thinks you’re his eternal whatever…but you’re spending the summer apart?

  Leesie327 says: He’s going to Spring and Summer terms. He didn’t do any college premish. He’s eager to get started.

  Kimbo69 says: You never told me mission boy was also BYU boy.

  Leesie327 says: Who do you think gave me the idea to come down here? But all of that was before Michael.

  Kimbo69 says: And now this is after Michael.

  Leesie327 says: Right. After Michael. Can I do after Michael?

  Kimbo69 says: You should stay down there for the summer and find out.

  Leesie327 says: That’s what Jaron wants, but I’m broke.

  Kimbo69 says: Sell a kidney.

  Leesie327 says: I thought about selling my laptop, but that feels so wrong.

  Kimbo69 says: Way wrong to go back to that dinosaur
desktop.

  Leesie327 says: It’s not mine. It’s his.

  Kimbo69 says: I doubt Michael wants it back.

  Leesie327 says: But it’s his. I need to keep it. It’s his.

  Kimbo69 says: Get a grip…it’s not like it’s his kid…you have to face that he’s not a part of your life anymore…sell the laptop and let all your dreams come true.

  Leesie327 says: The pickup is all loaded. Phil and I head out at 7 AM.

  Kimbo69 says: Some other girl will nab Jaron in a month.

  Leesie327 says: Maybe some other girl should.

  LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

  POEM #66, NEW HOPE?

  Jaron stands at the door of the pickup

  when I go out to meet Phil—

  tall, straight, meant to be—

  the pathway with him has no curves,

  bumps surely, but with a rod of

  iron in our hands we’ll sail over.

  If anything was ever intended,

  by everyone we know,

  it’s him and me.

  He holds me, kisses me.

  “I’ll be up over the 4th.”

  I nod and kiss him back.

  Phil arrives mid-kiss.

  “Way to go guys!”

  He tosses his duffle

  in the back and climbs

  into the passenger’s seat.

  I can’t let go,

  cling frantic to Jaron, keep kissing him.

  He pulls back, takes my hands from

  around his neck and kisses them.

  “It’s okay, Leese. I’m real.” He smiles,

  straight white teeth, clear

  blue eyes, short brown missionary

  cut hair. “If you want to tell

  people we’re engaged—that’s okay

  with me.”

  Yes? It would be so easy, so right.

  But all I know—is no.

  I touch his cheek.

  “Let’s take it slow.”

  His lips slide back to mine.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

  I think of the laptop inside

  the backpack I set down

  to kiss him good-bye.

  “Yeah. I’m broke.” And Michael

  might just be home in three weeks.

  We had a date.

  But no. Not now.

  He’ll bring her if he comes

  home at all.

  Jaron frowns and plays with my hair.

  “Can’t your parents—”

  “Nope.” I put my head on his shoulder.

  He kisses my cheek, whispers,

  “I love you,” in my ear.

  Three words. So easy.

  But I can’t.

  His eyes tense hurt.

  My throat aches—

  I have to blink.

  “I’m trying. Give me

  a chance to catch up.”

  I substitute lips for words—

  then push him away,

  heft my backpack onto the seat,

  slam the door, pump the gas,

  hold the pedal down halfway,

  wiggle my foot, and the pickup roars to life.

  Phil grabs my pack as I drive out of Provo,

  pulls out my laptop, boots it up. Pulls a face.

  “You don’t have anything on here.”

  Just a lot of free podcasts and Playlist.

  I can’t afford to buy downloads,

  and I’m not going to steal stuff.

  Michael was disgusted, too.

  Phil puts the laptop on the floor,

  falls asleep—snores and drools.

  Got to love the kid.

  I sit back and put the pedal to the metal.

  Utah and Idaho eat my dust.

  Phil rouses at Idaho Falls, demands lunch,

  like the grumpy grizzly on the “Bear World”

  billboard we passed, and a turn

  at the wheel. Clear sunny day.

  I-15 to I-90. What can it hurt?

  An hour north, Montana welcomes

  us to no speed limit heaven.

  Phil grins and pushes the pickup

  to top speed. Eating up big sky

  faster than I can take it in.

  We hit Butte by 2 PM.

  He pulls off, treats me to BK.

  I take the wheel.

  No way does he get all the fun.

  He eats two Whoppers

  and all the fries, babbling

  about Krystal. “She’s going to wait.

  We’ve got it all planned.” He’s mission

  bound next spring.

  I glance over at him, so happy, can’t help

  splashing a drop of ice water in the glow.

  “Two whole years? She might break

  your heart.”

  Phil laughs. “Impossible. I never

  thought I could find someone

  who fits me so perfectly.”

  I mumble, “Me, too.”

  He thinks I’m talking about Jaron,

  reaches over and squeezes my shoulder

  with his greasy fingers.

  “Good for you, Leese.

  You deserve the guy.”

  I don’t correct him. What’s the point?

  I shake my head, blink away the

  liquid that suddenly makes my eyes swim,

  concentrate on accelerating out of a broad

  freeway curve, eating up the miles

  between us and home.

  Phil sleeps again—full, content.

  His face slackens to boyish sweet.

  I wish I could be him.

  Everything simple. Eternal

  life laid out clear, straight.

  No troubling phantoms on his path.

  Bald foothills turning green

  and deep blue skies decorated

  with white tufted clouds

  tune my soul to

  the joy of God’s creations.

  I drink like a child who’s

  played outside too long in the wind

  and finally come home for supper.

  Past Missoula the hills become

  mountains, the grass yields trees:

  pines.

  I-90 twists and bends following

  the curves of Clark’s Fork—wild and white—

  overloaded with spring run-off.

  I wonder if Clark really loved Sacajawea

  despite his wife and kids back home?

  How could he do that? Sure he felt sorry

  for her. I do, too.

  We all do. But he had a wife.

  Don’t let Charbonneau hurt her, Clark.

  But, geeze, go back home.

  The freeway climbs away from the river

  into fresh mountain air and Lolo National Forest.

  Dusk descends as we climb up through the forest

  into misty gray clouds.

  Home is not far now.

  My gas foot gets heavy.

  I roll down the window and let in

  the sweet smell of forest evergreens

  and damp, untainted air.

  On this wispy mountain ridge

  next to God and His angels

  far away from brick and cement,

  the sorrow of the past four months

  thins, wavers like the shifting clouds

  cloaking our progress.

  Hope, reborn and squalling, demands notice.

  My heart fills. Joy whispers from around

  the next bend. Michael’s love

  reaches across the world

  steady, unwavering, constant.

  How could I miss this? Ignore

  it for so long? Wallow in jealousy and pain?

  Pictures don’t lie.

  But neither does he.

  Each mile closer to home

  draws me closer and closer to him.