Unbroken Connection

by Angela Morrison

  Let him take me over complete,

  move me like a puppet, invest

  my brain with his thoughts

  until they get enough stones.

  My lip bleeds fresh all over his face,

  but I won’t let him stop no matter how

  creeped out he gets

  until a tap on the door robs

  me of his elixir.

  He hands me a tissue, grabs

  one and turns his back to the door.

  I awkwardly press it to my lips.

  “She’s awake?” Mom’s in too quick,

  sees too much. “Heavens, you two—

  this is hardly the time.”

  Her voice dissolves me.

  I killed her onliest, loveliest son.

  Please, Lord, let me drown in Michael,

  sink into his depths.

  Her voice won’t find me

  underwater. I won’t see her

  loathing, disgust, revulsion.

  Annihilate, disintegrate, uncreate me.

  I hate myself more

  than she could ever despise me.

  Even God must abhor me.

  In this life, He won’t forgive me

  this split second murder conceived

  in rage and heartache.

  Life for life. Please. Let me answer

  to a Higher Law. I can never, never

  look at my mother’s face, hear

  my father’s grief, listen to Stephie

  cry in the night, watch Krystal

  sob over Phil’s casket.

  I’ve done enough evil.

  Make me suffer. Make me pay.

  Stone me quick.

  I close my eyes when mom turns to me.

  Go away all—I’m asleep. Please, nurse

  I need to be asleep. If you would just

  let me sleep. I’m so, so tried, aching,

  hurting, nauseating, dizzy tired.

  “Leesie? Can you hear us?”

  The warmth of her breath is over my face.

  She’s close in, peering, trying to catch me.

  I feel Michael take my hand, hide it

  safe in both of his again. “She fades

  in and out.” Blessed liar.

  “Has she said anything about

  how it happened?”

  “No. She doesn’t remember.”

  It’s time for my mouth to open, confess,

  vilify myself. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.

  Can they hear me? Am I speaking?

  “I’m so sorry! So, sorry.” Screaming—that’s me.

  “Sorry, sorry. I did it. I’m sorry.”

  Order some stones. Giant ones

  That’s mom holding me.

  I can smell her, feel her.

  Don’t look. My eyes obey,

  but someone is still screaming

  until my head pounds open.

  Where is Michael? My hand

  is loose.

  Drop, cool drop. Fingers rub oil

  on my head top. Jaron’s voice.

  Now Dad’s hands return—

  rest lightly on my throbbing brain.

  His words staunch my hysteria

  but not my guilt.

  Phil, Phil, Phil.

  I’m so, so sorry. I’ll pay

  whatever I have to pay.

  An expert touch on my right

  hand, tiny icy spring water runs

  into my vein.

  Dad’s quiet blessing fades

  in the medicated haze.

  Someone takes my hand.

  Ah, there’s Michael.

  Chapter 35

  GUILTY

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

  DIVE BUDDY: Leesie

  DATE:04/25

  DIVE #:—

  LOCATION: Kellogg, ID

  DIVE SITE: Shoshone Medical Center

  WEATHER CONDITION: sleet

  WATER CONDITION: half-frozen

  DEPTH: deeper than I’ve ever been

  VISIBILITY: nil

  WATER TEMP.: colder

  BOTTOM TIME: too long

  COMMENTS:

  I retake Leesie’s hand when her Dad and Jaron finish praying on her head. Her fingers clutch an instant and go flaccid. Her face slacks with the drugs.

  The nurses move in. Leesie’s lip bleeds bright red. It ran down her face and neck. The pillow is bloody—my hands and T-shirt are stained.

  Her parents and Jaron stare at me.

  I stare back. They want to know exactly what I did to Leesie. I want to know exactly what they did to her. Her Dad and Jaron with that tiny silver tube that dripped something. I can still see the oily spot in what’s left of her hair. They both put their hands on her head. Jaron prayed short. Her dad prayed long. “Free her from this consuming guilt.”

  Consuming guilt. That’s how she kissed me. What it felt like when she smashed her swollen lip on my tooth, and I tasted the tang of her blood.

  Consuming.

  It scares the freak out of me. I don’t want her consumed. I won’t consume her. Free her. Like he said.

  I wish they’d say something to me. Her mom hugs Jaron and asks him about his family. Her dad goes into the bathroom and washes his hands.

  Please ask me.

  She begged me to kiss her.

  She needed me to kiss her.

  She consumed me.

  I’m scared for her. The purity I worshipped seems gone. Her barriers were down. What happened to her? Where did it all go? Why won’t she stop taking about stones? What weird Mormon thing is that?

  They don’t look at me.

  They don’t look at her.

  They don’t look at the blood.

  It’s like Leesie and I are on a separate plane of existence. The nurse bustles down on her level. The Hunts and Jaron murmur quietly over on theirs. I stand alone with Leesie’s hand cradled between mine, strain to pull her back from whatever dark place she’s going. But how can I? I don’t have the tools. I stare at the set of keys Jaron jangles. There it is. That tiny silver cylinder. What the hell is that?

  “What do you think, Michael?”

  Freak, Leesie’s dad. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “The highway patrol have a job for you boys. Leesie’s things are all over the side of the mountain. They’ve invited you to help salvage.”

  “Sure. Count me in.”

  “They’ve finished the investigation, so now we can recover her—their—effects.”

  “Investigation? Are they going to charge her?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Leesie’s mom moves towards me, stands by the bed. Freak. She wants me to give way. She wants Leesie’s hand. She looks at my tropic weight bloodied up clothes. “Jaron—I noticed a resort ski shop on the way in. Stop so Michael can get something to wear.” Her eyes meet mine. “You’ll freeze out there.”

  A mom. She’s always a mom. Freak, I could use one of those. I blink my eyes and sniff so my nose doesn’t run, gently place Leesie’s hand in hers.

  Jaron drives a car he borrowed off a friend. I buy jeans and a ski jacket. Next door there’s a tiny computer fix it shop. I pick up a refurbished laptop there. We hit the highway. Shock, fatigue, and that haunting feeling of terror have wiped me. I can’t keep my eyes open.

  I wake by myself in the car. I don’t know where I am. What I’m doing. A roaring sound starts in my ears. Haven’t had a visit from Isadore in awhile. Guess I should expect this. I close my eyes and free dive breathe until she passes, remembering where I am at last. I get out of the car in time to see Jaron tossing half a laptop screen onto a pile in the back of a pickup.

  She didn’t burn it after all.

  “What should we do with all these papers?” an officer asks him. “Most of them are pretty wet.” He holds a big black garbage bag full of sheets up for Jaron to view.

  He shrugs. “Pitch—”

  “Keep them.” I stride over, grab the bag. “Every last one. I’ll dry them.” They bot
h look at me like I’m a crazy zealot nutcase. I pull one of the pages out of the bag. It’s covered with her scribbles. The birth of a poem. Words scratched out. Arrows where lines should move. An asterixed stanza in the margin. I smooth the paper out and lay it gently in the bag, put the entire bag in the back seat of Jaron’s borrowed clunker.

  As I walk back to where the searchers pick slowly through the heavily forested mountainside, I notice the ugly tire marks that stain the asphalt. Freak, she was going fast. A section of cement curbing is marked up, too.

  A swath of smashed trees leads my eyes to the pickup. It’s still down there. Hung up on a giant pine tree—wheel side up. A monument to Phil’s life and Leesie’s guilt.

  Her consuming guilt.

  Jaron and I try to hike down to it.

  “Don’t touch that,” some cop hollers at us.

  We back off and get busy gathering up papers and socks, underwear and T-shirts. I find her pink quilt. Broken dishes. A shard of the bowl we ate ice cream out of together.

  Her old desktop is smashed, too.

  My hands are cold and cut—filthy. Jaron’s got gloves on. They bug me—those gloves. I remember Leesie working out on the farm covered from head to toe with dust, smelling of sweat and pigs and sweet banana mango shampoo.

  That’s the girl I love.

  She doesn’t belong with this dude in gloves.

  She belongs with me. Down and dirty. I’ll bleed with you, babe. Whatever it takes.

  A cop finds her jacket. It’s muddy and frozen—totally ruined. Jaron shakes his head. “That’s not hers.”

  “Yeah. It is.” I holler and head towards the cop. “Save it.”

  Jaron shrugs, turns away from me.

  I collect two more big black garbage bags full of papers—keep the jacket with me, too. Jaron drops me at an inn downtown where her parents are staying, so I can rent a room for us to share. He heads back to the hospital. I spread the papers all over the room. Shower. Put my dirty clothes back on. Send an SOS email to Stan—lawyer and friend. He’s the only helper I’ve got besides Gram, but he’s damn good help.

  Freak, my car’s at the hospital. The guy at the front desk gives me a ride. Small town. Nice. Makes me feel like scum for dissing Teacup—I mean, Tekoa—all these years.

  Leesie’s screaming my name when I get back to the hospital. She came out of it, freaked cause I was gone, and had a bad reaction to whatever they shot her full of this time to calm her down.

  I run down the hall and push my way into her room. It reeks—vomit and worse. There’s diarrhea on her sheets. She’s flailing around, chomping down on her lip over and over. Her mom tries to pin her down to keep her still. Leesie fights, jars her ribs, and wrenches the broken bones in her collarbone. Hurts herself—but doesn’t stop—invites the pain. I whisper to the nurse, “Get her mom out of here.”

  They take the cue, hustle Leesie’s mom away. I take her place—get in Leesie’s face. “I’m here. It’s okay, babe. I’m here.”

  She stops writhing. Her eyes find me. “You left me with her. She kept talking about the funeral. Phil’s. She’s planning this huge thing. She says she doesn’t blame me, but they’ll all find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Just stone me, Michael. Did you bring rocks? Please stone me.”

  “Calm down.” I grasp at something to distract her with. “Jaron and I went out to the site. We got all your stuff. I found your quilt.”

  “Was Phil there? Did you see him?” Her poor wild eyes, bruised and hiding behind her plastered nose, lodge a stone in my throat and bring water to my eyes.

  I smooth my hand across the half of her forehead that isn’t stitched and push back a lock of greasy hair. “No. He’s not still out there.” I sniff.

  “They give me that crap, and it makes me dream he’s splattered on a pile of rocks. I crawl over to him and try to stuff his brains back in his head.”

  I sit on the bed, hold a compress the nurse hands me to Leesie’s lip, bend over. My poor babe. “Did you see him like that?” My guts clench.

  She nods and starts to cry—clean, healthy tears—not screaming hysteria. Pure, unadulterated grief. A first step.

  The nurse who’s changing her sheets says, “That’s it, hon. There’s a girl.”

  I hold Leesie’s hand while the nurse strips her naked and sponges her down. I keep my back turned, eyes on her face. I don’t want to see her body for the first time like this. Leesie’s crying too hard to even realize what they are doing. The nurse gowns her up quick and leaves. Still Leesie cries.

  “Hold me?” she chokes through her tears. “I’ll be good.”

  I sit behind her on the bed and ease my arms around her, wipe the snot off her face. She rests her head back on my shoulder. I breathe deep, hold it, exhale. Repeat. Soothe her with the rise and fall of my chest. Breathe in. Breathe out. Steady.

  She can’t follow. Tears, soft and holy, are all she knows.

  Jaron taps on the door, enters with fresh ice and water, sets it on her table. I help her sip, wipe her face again.

  Jaron sits in the chair. “They should give her something.”

  “They’ve done that enough. She needs this.”

  “You’re an expert?”

  I remember crying like this in Leesie’s arms and shake my head. “She is.” She taught me how to mourn. She can do this. She knows the way.

  Jaron stands up, comes closer to the bed. “It’s okay, Leese. You’ll see him again.”

  She shakes her head, swallows, and manages to murmur. “Not me. I won’t be there.” She sobs.

  “Of course you will.”

  “I killed him.” She sniffs, struggles for control so she can speak. “No forgiveness for murderers.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Her right hand clutches at the sheet. “I killed him.”

  Jaron turns away from us, walks over to the window, stands still listening to Leesie’s muffled weeping. He’s quiet for five minutes and then returns to Leesie’s bedside. “I have to leave. Classes start Monday.”

  I hold my hand out to him—guess this is up to me now. “Thanks, man.”

  He shakes my hand, staring at Leesie. His lower lip trembles. “Good-bye.”

  She holds her broken hand out to him.

  He presses her fingers, looks past her at me. “Take care of her. Don’t you dare mess with her.”

  I nod.

  He’s gone.

  Leesie’s tears drip down my arm.

  The tissue box is empty.

  LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

  POEM # 71, SALVATION

  As I cry, Michael falls asleep,

  propped sideways behind my back,

  his arms holding my torso,

  so he doesn’t jar the snapped side

  of my clavicle. His hands

  rest on my stomach.

  My left arm nests in the

  crook of his.

  His sleep calms like no

  chemical could. The tears wear

  out. I stroke Michael’s hand with

  my fingertips.

  A tap on the door—it’s dad.

  I nod entrance, but warn,

  “Don’t wake him.”

  Dad stands on my IV side. “Are

  you in pain?”

  “Not so bad.”

  “Want another blessing?”

  Michael’s loving breath stirs my hair.

  “No. I’m blessed.”

  “I can get Jaron.”

  “Jaron’s gone.”

  Can you blame him?

  I’m a psychopathic killer

  frantically in love with someone else.

  Dad realizes the retreat. “If things

  don’t work out with Michael—”

  “Shut up, Dad. I just want to make

  it through the night.”

  “Mom wants to stay.”

  “I’ll see her in the morning.

  Michael’s here.”

 
Dad kisses my forehead—tiptoes out.

  I lie awake surrounded

  by Michael’s love.

  How did he do this alone?

  Nights are so, so long.

  He knows. He won’t leave me

  to fight the nightmares solo

  like I

  left him.

  I’m sorry, Michael. I

  did my best.

  You chose the wrongest girl

  for the task, but I’m so glad

  you did.

  He stirs. I whisper, “Do you