Unbroken Connection

by Angela Morrison

  want to lie down?”

  His arms come alive, squeeze,

  and he’s sound asleep again.

  The minutes and hours of dark quiet

  settle me to rest.

  I wake to another world.

  Mom’s in the room talking

  with the nurse about sending me home.

  “We can’t afford two more days.

  If there’s no medical reason

  to keep her, she’ll rest easier at home.”

  Home? I can’t go home!

  They won’t let me take Michael home.

  Michael can’t hold me all night at home.

  Phil is

  everywhere

  at home.

  “The funeral is Wednesday.

  We need her there. She’s

  speaking.”

  I feel dark and loathsome—hysteria

  threatens—I close my eyes, but that makes it worse.

  I am not brave.

  I am not courageous.

  I am a frail tissue paper snowflake,

  tossing in a blizzard,

  my intricate design shredded,

  not equipped for my new reality.

  I cannot stand at a microphone

  in front of mourning hundreds

  and confess my crime.

  I killed my brother. Stone me!

  I don’t want to die.

  I have Michael.

  I can live for him now.

  He’s awake, too—gets up,

  takes Mom out of the room,

  comes back, rolls his eyes.

  “You’re not speaking.”

  He hits the can.

  This isn’t what I planned

  for my eternity. Damnation

  wasn’t in the cards,

  but rage, pride, hate

  at my own sweet brother—

  vile as his words were—

  vanquished his mortality, denied him

  posterity, and spiraled me off the narrow

  joyful path into an abyss I can’t

  traverse alone.

  I can’t pray, can’t seek my God, my Savior,

  fear binds my tongue, guilt

  brands me lost.

  Home? I can’t abide my mother’s

  voice, my father’s touch, my pink

  girlhood bedroom.

  Michael walks out of the bathroom—

  rumpled T-shirt, sleep in his eyes,

  hair matted greasy, five days stubble

  on his handsome face,

  loving me enough to be

  my

  salvation.

  Chapter 36

  SOMEWHERE

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10

  DIVE BUDDY: Leesie

  DATE: 04/26

  DIVE #:—

  LOCATION: Kellogg, ID

  DIVE SITE: Shoshone Medical Center

  WEATHER CONDITION: sleet

  WATER CONDITION: half frozen

  DEPTH: surfacing

  VISIBILITY: clearer

  WATER TEMP.: okay

  BOTTOM TIME: 24 hours

  COMMENTS:

  Leesie’s alert today. Unhooked. Unstrapped. Un-IV’d. Eats a little. Going stir crazy. Her parents are both in the room. She won’t let go of me. Makes it crowded.

  I convince her mom not to talk about the funeral any more. The enormity of killing Phil is crushing Leesie. Her dad gets it, but her mom is in never, never land running around arranging things. Post-traumatic busy. Who cares, lady? Flowers, viewings, musical numbers. This guy speaking or that woman praying. I’m sure it will be beautiful—and Phil deserves it all, Leesie’s mom needs it all—but the prospect terrifies my babe.

  Everything terrifies her. It’s like she’s stripped of the inner core of her being. As her physical pain begins to get under control, her mental pain seems to take off. She cringes when her dad prays. I felt it this morning.

  Mid-afternoon the nurse rolls in a wheelchair and tells me to take Leesie for a ride. Her ankles are bad. She can hobble to the bathroom with me and her dad helping—her poor mom, she won’t let her near. She makes the nurse help if she needs it in there. She demanded underwear when she went after lunch. But to walk, she would need support—crutches? Not likely with her other injuries. So it’s wheelchair time.

  Leesie pulls a face but lets me pick her up and put her in it.

  “Take a break you guys,” she says to her parents.

  She makes me bring my new laptop. There’s supposed to be Wi-Fi next door.

  I push her up and down the short halls in this tiny hospital. It’s April mountain sleeting outside—so no real fresh air.

  She touches my hand with her casted left hand. “What are we going to do?”

  I pause and wind my fingers through hers, careful not to jar anything in that cast. “Walk around until my arms give out.”

  She stares at her bandaged ankles. “I can’t go home.”

  “Do you want to stay at Grams?” Gram would be great, and I could take care of Leesie—sleep on the floor beside her in my old room.

  She’s quiet a minute. “No.” Her voice threatens tears. “I need to get really far away.”

  I start pushing her, blinking the heat out of my eyes. “So now she wants to run away with me.”

  “Yup.” She swallows. “Just not to Thailand.”

  My mind starts to churn up plans. “Can you hack flying?”

  “I think so. I’m liking this regal service.”

  “Running away—that’s so not you.” I stop her in front of the candy machines, crouch down in front of her. “You’ve got to face your parents. Tell them everything. That’ll help.”

  “No.” She won’t even tell me everything. She remembers. I’m pretty sure of it. The nurses said she didn’t black out. The paramedics drugged her. I’ve watched her reliving it about twenty times today. She pouts. “If you won’t take me, I’ll go by myself.”

  “How?” I play with her right hand that sits limp in her lap, free of the IV.

  She touches the cast on her face, tries to smile. “I can steal a car and drive to Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska? I think I can do better than Nebraska.” I stand and put money in the machine, buy her gum. She’s freaked all the time that she’s got bad breath.

  She thinks while I open the package and unwrap a piece for her, put it gently in her mouth.

  She chews and says, “But there are wheat farms in Nebraska. We can take your millions and buy a little one. Could probably last about five years on it before we run out of cash.”

  I shove the gum in my pocket. “That will not be part of the deal.”

  “Okay. Surprise me. Let’s go find some Wi-Fi so you can get started.”

  I push her towards the front door. There’s a small reception area there with a vinyl couch. When we get there, I park Leesie, sit down in front of her, lean on the wheelchair arm rest and look into her battered face. The wound across her half bald head, gooey with ointment, glistens in the fluorescent lights. The bruises around her eyes are deep purple today. I don’t know when the plaster on her nose comes off. It’s daunting to take responsibility for this wounded girl, but I can do it.

  I clear my throat. “I don’t think it’s right to get married immediately. You’re not thinking straight. I won’t have anyone saying I took advantage of you.”

  She scowls. “Who cares what they say.”

  “I don’t want you saying it.”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I broke the hugest rule—there’s only one thing worse—and it’s not sex. I’m black, black, stained black. Anything you and I do won’t even begin to compare.” Her lower lip trembles.

  I take both her hands in mine. “That’s stupid.”

  “I didn’t make it up.” Her fingers rub my palms. “I want you close.” Her voice drops low. “I want you part of me.” She sniffs and closes her eyes. “I want to give you everything I haven’t.”

  I swallow hard. It kills me to say this. “
If it was important to wait then, it still is. I promised your dad I’d never hurt you.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Please, Michael. I know I’m hideous now. Love me anyways.”

  “Freak, Leese, do you think I see any of that?” I drop my forehead onto her knee. “I do love you, but we have to do this right. You’ll get over this and hate me if we do it wrong.”

  Her hands get lost in my wild hair. “There’s no getting over this.”

  “Trust me, babe.” I sit up and kiss her temple. “There is.”

  LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

  POEM #72, ESCAPADE

  Michael salvaged my life into two

  massive duffel bags and loaded them

  into his get away rental compact.

  It killed me to let him out of sight

  to get all this stuff done.

  Mom took it as a good sign,

  tried to coax me out of my silence.

  Dad came in after dinner with news—

  the insurance just got mysteriously worked out.

  Blessings?

  Michael.

  He came back cleaned up and gorgeous:

  v-neck sweater with a tan leather jacket,

  expensive indigo jeans,

  plaid Vans slip-ons,

  looking way too good to be seen

  with a scab-face crash dummy.

  Mom’s exhausted. Dad, too.

  “Big day, tomorrow.” She blinks slow

  and accepts Dad’s offer to leave early.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” flies out of me

  when they open the door.

  “It’ll be okay, Leesie. The Lord

  loves you—don’t ever forget that.”

  Dad’s mouth corners turn up a fraction

  at my movement to conciliate.

  And they’re gone.

  Michael helps me dress—

  doesn’t stroke my skin

  or get distracted and kiss my shoulder.

  He’s as business-like as our nurse

  accomplice who brought in the papers

  for me to sign myself out.

  He buttons my blouse, snaps my jeans,

  Velcro’s blue boot things onto my feet.

  He drapes a jacket that matches his

  around my shoulders. “Freak,” he grins

  like a naughty boy. “We look like

  Bonnie and Clyde.” Michael’s lawyer

  guy, Stan the fantastic, agreed

  to represent me if charges are laid

  so at least we’re not running

  from the law.

  Just

  life.

  Before we leave, Michael draws

  a muddy page of folded pink paper

  out of his pocket.

  “Is that my scribbles?”

  I recognize a rough poem draft

  written in green ink, crossed-out,

  re-worked, half-baked enough

  to type it up and save to a file

  that no longer exists.

  He hands it to me.

  “For your parents.”

  I look down, read

  me and Phil racing

  our bikes through the rain.

  I hand it back to him,

  wipe the stinging from my eyes.

  He leaves it on my pillow.

  “Can you walk?”

  It hurts but I do.

  Outside, it still sleets.

  He picks me up,

  kisses my forehead,

  carries me

  to the car.

  My backpack’s on the front seat.

  “I found your passport in there.”

  “Passport?”

  He nods.

  He kept the bargain—won’t

  tell me where we’re going.

  And that’s okay—

  Anywhere he is

  is where

  I want

  to be.

  The End

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My younger sister, Holly, died in a car accident almost two decades ago. I’ll never forget that phone call from my mom in the middle of the night, Holly’s heartbroken husband, her two young sons in the hospital hooked to machines, tears that seemed endless, and the incredible peace that comes when you put your grief in the hands of a higher power.

  When Holly’s long, gorgeous hair and mad driving skills crept into Leesie’s character, I knew there was a devastating accident in Leesie’s future. For very personal reasons, I could not let go of this story no matter what publishers or agents wanted.

  In my debut novel, Taken by Storm, Michael faces incredible loss, but he finds Leesie. Unbroken Connection is Leesie’s story. By the end, she is broken and battered—physically and spiritually. I promise I won’t leave her that way.

  I would like to invite you—my family, friends and beautiful readers to join with me on a new creative journey. You waited so patiently for Unbroken Connection. In the coming months (Fall 2010), as I write the final volume of Michael and Leesie’s saga, Cayman Summer, I want you there with me each step of the way. I will be posting Cayman Summer poem by poem, chat by chat, dive log by dive log and invite your comments and critique. The final book will be released early in 2011. Watch www.angela-morrison.com for news.

  All my gratitude and love,

  Angela

  THANK YOU …

  Rob, my brilliant boy, for designing a cover far beyond my expectations and handling scary stuff like HTML and InDesign.

  Andy—the video genius in my household—who turned Rob’s cover into an unforgettable trailer.

  Rachel for helping me update my rusty BYU-lore.

  Will for not complaining too much when I was twenty minutes late over and over again.

  Allen, whose hard work and love makes my writing life possible, for taking me to Phuket, looking after me when I got bent, and driving all the way up to Koa Lak so I could look, listen, and video.

  Joelle for Aristotle.

  Kathi Baron (Shattered) for reading, critiquing and believing.

  Jennifer Wolf (Tigerseye) for crying at 2 AM.

  Underwater videographer Nick Hope’s “Reef Life of the Andaman” at www.bubblevision.com, http://myanmar.greatestdivesites.com, and www.moby-dick-adventures.com for bringing Thailand, Similan and Myanmar diving to life for me.

  The late photographer, Nicolas Reynard, for the remarkable work he did for National Geographic to give us a glimpse of the Moken, Sea Gypsies of Myanmar. (See http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2005/04/sea-gypsies/ivanoff-text)

  And all my devoted readers and loyal bloggers—especially Bidisha at Dreamcatcher’s Lair who launched “Support for Unbroken Connection” on FaceBook and Michelle at Windowpane Memories who created the “Don’t Break the Connection” icon to share around the blogosphere—for rallying around me and buoying me up when Michael and Leesie’s continuing story lay stranded on the rocky shores of rejection. You helped me see that “no” isn’t the end of the journey. It’s just an opportunity to ford a new stream and explore fresh landscapes. You believed in me and my story and that gave me the courage to stand up for myself as an artist and follow the inspiration God blessed me with. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  Unbroken Connection would not be a reality without each and every one of you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Angela Morrison is the author of Taken by Storm (Penguin/Razorbill 2009) and Sing me to Sleep (Penguin/Razorbill 2010). She graduated from Brigham Young University and holds an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She grew up in Eastern Washington on the wheat farm where Taken By Storm is set. After over a decade abroad in Canada, Switzerland and Singapore, she and her family are happily settled in Mesa, Arizona. Angela enjoys speaking to writers and readers of all ages about her craft. She has four children—mostly grown up—and the most remarkable grandson in the universe. Find out more at www.angela-morrison.com.

  Angela Morrison, Unbroken Connection