in my room.
I pick up the bottle of water,
grind it open with my teeth,
spit out the lid, drink,
it runs down my neck, slam
the bottle down, close
my eyes against the light.
I invite pain to be my comfort,
seek solace in suffering. If Michael
won’t fill my nights, guide me
into another realm, I’ll linger here
just as he left me, encourage my wounds
to be my companion. My head, hand, ribs,
clavicle, ankles, and heart
seethe, stew,
seer.
I breathe deep, deep, deep.
Pain mounts and rolls as the clock
on the nightstand flicks past number
after number, until hurt is all I know.
I’m lost in its waves, oblivious
to anything but it’s pulsing embrace.
I don’t need you, Michael,
I want to scream.
You and your pills just
get in the way of what’s
most important.
My pain.
I manage to get his chain
with the ring over my head
and fling it at the door
to his stupid connecting room.
All is silent on the other
side of the door.
I hush my moans, writhe
in silence. I don’t want
him in here forcing
those pills down my throat.
I clutch this exquisite ache,
discover a white hot ball
of anger festering deep
in my gut, coax it to bloom
and engulf my guilt,
my sorrow, my shame.
I point it at
my dad, for being too kind, too good,
my mom, for her funeral schemes,
Phil for attacking me over Michael,
and dying, the jerk, how could he do that?
Michael for refusing to take
what he use to beg for.
And God for letting it all happen.
I thought you loved me?
I thought I was your daughter?
How could you?
A familiar comfort tries to slip
into my heart.
I block it—wall it away—
revel in pain and rage.
I don’t deserve that touch.
Can bear the comfort
I know is lost.
I killed my brother.
And that is the biggest
pain of all.
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10
Dive Buddy: Leesie
Date: 04/28
Dive #: FREE DIVE
Location: Grand Cayman
Dive Site: Summer Breeze Resort
Weather Condition: sunny
Water Condition: flat calm
Depth: 20’
Visibility: can’t tell, no mask
Water Temp: 82
Bottom Time: 5 minutes total
Comments:
I wake up to Leesie moaning. I’m lying on the floor in front of the connecting door, drooling on the carpet. Gross. I get to my feet and press my ear to the door. She should still be knocked out. Could she make that noise in her sleep? It’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard.
“Leese,” I call quietly in case she’s asleep. “Did you take your pills?”
The moans cease.
“Leese. Babe.”
No answer.
The nurses told me to give her a “sedating dose” to get her through the night. These pills won’t kill the pain like the hospital strength stuff they pumped into her through her IV, but they’re supposed to help. Better than nothing. “The pills are right there, babe—on the nightstand.”
Still no answer. I wait and wait. Maybe she went back to sleep. Or she’s stifling her suffering, gritting her teeth so I can’t hear, fighting back the agony.
“Leese. Answer me.”
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then a muffled moan meets my ears.
I grab the door handle, turn it, start to push it open, but something stops me cold.
I’m just going to give her the pills.
No.
I won’t stay. I won’t touch her.
No.
I can do this. Trust me.
You can’t.
So I have to leave her like that all night?
Yes.
In pain?
Yes.
I want to move, but I’m frozen. I stand glued to the door listening to her moans mount louder and louder until Isadore sweeps down on me, and I’m lost to wind and waves. My mom’s screams mingle with Leesie’s cries—freak—it seems like hours.
Gray dawn light fills my hotel room when Isadore releases me. Whatever stopped me earlier is gone. The door opens easily. I walk through, try not to look at Leesie writhing on the bed, try not to hear her moan. I find her pills on the floor. Freak, she chucked them. Get four fresh ones out of the brown prescription bottle. Sit on her bed and slip my arm behind her back to raise her up. Put the drugs in her mouth. Pour water into the mix. She tips her head back and swallows. Falls against me.
I settle her down on the bed, grab pillows to prop up her hand and feet, slide onto my knees beside her, cradle her hot, sweaty, broken hand in both of mine. “Freak, Leesie, I’m sorry. I had to get out of here last night. I couldn’t live with myself if the first thing I did when I got you alone was like rape you.”
She closes her eyes and considers my confession. “It wouldn’t,” she manages to whisper, “have been rape.” Her eyelids lift, and she drills me. She’s angry.
I bow my head over her hand. “You’re hurt—not thinking straight. It would have felt like rape.”
“That’s what”—she pauses to gather each word out of the pain haze that quakes her body—“I need”—her hand breaks away from mine—“now.”
I raise my head and try to find a way in through her eyes. “No, it’s not. You need that good old Leesie magic you poured all over me. Remember?”
Her eyes retreat. “That’s over.” She inhales and exhales, gathers another phrase. “It’s—gone.”
“No, it’s not, Leese.” I take back her hand, clasp it in mine. “It’s here. Protecting you—from me. It kept me on the other side of the door.”
“You wanted to come in?”
“All night babe.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I wanted to be with you. Really with you.” I let go her hand and hide my face in the bedding.
With an obvious effort, she strokes my head. “That’s what I want.” Her voice catches. “Love me your way.”
I raise my head, sit back on my heels. “This isn’t about love.” I don’t want to continue, but I can’t stop. “You want to sleep with me to prove that you’re lost, a sinner—mound up the guilt. Add to the pain. I’m not helping you with that.”
She clenches her fist and pounds the bed. “You don’t understand.”
“Yes. I do. More than you know.” I sit on the bed, clasp her face between my hands so she can’t look away. “I refuse to be that guy.”
“You won’t love me?” She reaches to kiss me, but I pull back.
“I won’t destroy you. If that’s what you want, find somebody else.” I let go of her face, but I don’t move away.
She closes her eyes. Won’t look at me. Won’t open them. Won’t talk. I watch her face go slack as the drugs get into her system. Listen to her breath steady.
Freak, where’s her ring? Not around her neck like when I left her. I search her covers, check the nightstand, the floor by the bed, under it. Nothing. Widen the grid. Find it in front of my door smashed into the plush carpet. I must have stepped on it coming in here. How did it get from her neck to here? I put it safe around my own neck.
My stomach rumbles. I don’t know when I last ate.
I check my pocket
to be sure I have a room key, tiptoe to the door that leads out into the hall, ease it open, and close it safe behind me. I double check to make sure it’s locked.
I notice myself in the elevator mirror, rub the drool off my chin, and finger comb my hair. It’s greasy. I stink. My mouth tastes sour. A shower sounds so good. A long hot one. Leesie needs to get cleaned up, too. How the freak am I going to manage that one?
I stop at the front desk. “Is there somewhere close I can get food?”
“Room service?”
I shake my head.
“We’ve got two restaurants. They open in”—she checks her watch—“about two hours.”
My watch reads 5:15 AM. Great. “What about a drug store or 7-11?”
“Two blocks down. Turn right when you leave the hotel. Go out the front entrance.”
“Great, thanks.” I muster up a smile.
She seems to appreciate it.
“I need a nurse. Do you know where I can get a nurse?”
She gives me a weird look. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“A nurse.” I frown. “Like from a hospital.”
She glances over at her computer monitor. “We’ve got a doctor on call. Would you like us to page him?”
“No. We don’t need a doctor.” A doctor wouldn’t take Leese to the bathroom or get her cleaned up and dressed. “I need a nurse.”
A second girl at the desk butts in. “You can check with the rehab center across the street. It’s a couple blocks past the convenience store.”
“Rehab center?” My brows scrunch together. “You mean like for drug addicts?”
“No.” She shakes her head, leaves her stool, and walks over to her colleague. “My uncle went there after he had back surgery. He was ready to leave the hospital but not to go home. They make them do physical therapy. A bunch of doctors and therapists work there. And nurses. I’m sure there are nurses. They taught him to get dressed and made him exercise. Stuff like that.”
The confused knot in my guts begins to unravel. “And the nurses are nice?”
She nods her head. “My uncle liked them. My aunt not so much. My mom got an earful every time she called.”
“Why?”
She giggles. “Something about sponge baths.”
“She got jealous?”
“Acted like that.” She shrugs. “My mom said she was scared out of her mind.”
I can relate. “Thanks. I’ll check it out.” I turn to leave. “Which way again?”
They both motion with their thumbs sticking out. “Right.”
I grin. “Thanks.”
It’s fresh dawn cool outside. Not muggy hot like last night when the cab dropped us off. The air smells like ocean. Two blocks and I’d be there. The edge of the water. There’s got to be a beach. If I run, I could be there in minutes—seconds. Saltwater, soothing, cool. I won’t stay in for long.
I do run.
Stalk through a beach front condo resort like I own it. Strip down to my boxers on the sand. Leave my jeans and shirt crumpled on the sand. Race into the foam of a retreating wave. Slide onto my belly when it gets knee deep. Stretch my arms forward and pull them back. Kick. Submerge. Freak, it feels so good.
I swim out until I find a clump of coral in this sandy desert, take a deep breath, another and another—swim down to the coral, wishing for a mask. Two tiny fish dart in and out of the holes in the stony coral. Ignore me. I surface, lie on my back as the sun rises.
I love Cayman. I haven’t been here since my parents died. I can’t wait to dive. I never thought I’d be tough enough to come back here without them. But it feels right to be here now. Leesie can do her open water dives. Finish her cert with me training her.
Leesie.
Freak.
I wonder how long until she can dive. Broken collar bone. Cracked ribs. The cast on her hand. I hope they say it’d be good therapy. We’ll get snorkels and fins—wrap her cast in plastic. I’ll bring her down here every day as soon as they take that thing off her nose.
They. Who is they? I got to get back to figuring that out.
I swim twenty feet down to the ocean floor again, wave good-bye to the fish, drag myself free of the water, let it swirl around my feet while I put my dry clothes on my wet body.
I retreat to the hotel and turn left since I’m coming from the opposite direction, find the snack place, slam three power bars, and a quart of juice. Grab some for Leesie and head up the street searching for that rehab place.
It’s right where they said it was. A low sturdy building between two high-rise hotels.
I try the door. It’s open. How long have I been gone? Oh, crap. It’s past 7 AM. I don’t want Leese to wake up alone writhing in pain.
A woman at a huge mahogany desk sitting in the middle of the entry way stands up. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” I make such a mess of describing Leesie and me and what we’re doing here that any sane person would have called the cops.
She doesn’t bat an eye—launches into fees and services and expectations.
“Can I bring her in this morning? Right away?”
“Of course.”
Chapter 3
REINFORCEMENTS
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM #76, MR. SUNSHINE
Michael steers a wheelchair
into my room, waking me.
He pours pills down my throat.
“Come on, babe. We’re going
for a walk.”
I’m not talking to him
ever again. He’s wrong.
I’m right. And he’s going be sorry.
He picks me up, plops me
in the chair. “Ow, watch it.”
I scowl, licking wounds.
“Sorry, babe, does it hurt?”
He squats beside me and kisses
my cheek. “How do you like your chariot?”
He puts the chain with my ring
back around my neck,
ties my headscarf do-rag style,
straps on my stupid footgear.
I raise my eyebrows.
“In case you want to wade.”
He pulls a bottle of OJ out
of a grocery bag swinging from
his wrist and hands it to me,
kisses me when he bends to twist
the top off. “Forgive me?”
I can’t hate him when
he’s like this. The Ice Queen
relents. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” He kisses me again.
“You’re stuck.”
My eyes swim. “No, Michael.
You’re stuck. I’m sorry I did this to you.”
He gets down on his knees and
lays his head in my lap.
“I don’t ever, ever, ever
want to hear you say that again.”
I can’t answer or I’ll cry.
I stroke the top of his tangled head.
It’s damp. “What’ve you been up to?”
“I just got out of the ocean.”
“Saltwater therapy?”
“Yeah. It’s the best.”
“Earth to Michael—I can’t
go in the water.”
“But you can get close.”
His smile—so big and beautiful—
coaxes the corners of my mouth to
ease up for a moment.
His head tilts toward the bathroom.
“Do you need to go?”
I shake my head and sip my juice.
“You got up by yourself?”
“Twice.”
“That must have hurt.”
I look away from his pity.
“Freak, I got to use the john.”
He dumps granola bars
in my lap. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into his room.
I sip juice, nibble at a bar,
my stomach in knots that
won’t admit food,
&n
bsp; listen to the sink, then the shower.
He returns scrubbed, shaved,
and glowing, garbed in garish
purple and lime green swim-shorts
and an “I love Cayman” T.
My jeans feel cemented
to my body. “No fair.”
“Jealous of my snazzy outfit?”
“Your clean hair.”
“We’ll take care of yours after
the walk—I promise.”
“You’re going to undress me?”
“Shh. It’s a surprise.”
The beach is glorious.
Caribbean blue water,
even brighter than I remember
from the Keys. The wheelchair
gets bogged down in the deep,
dry sand. Michael powers
through it to firm damp beach,
pushes me right up to the surf’s
edge—a tiny wavelet swirls
around the wheels,
the sun catches the diamond
hanging from my neck.
He tips back the chair
on its two big wheels,
ignores my squeals
and pushes me into the water.
The turquoise sea rushing in and out
uncovers a childish delight—simple,
pure, a bit tarnished and battered—but
I can feel. He keeps me out there
until his arms can’t hold the chair
up anymore.
Then those arms, moist with sweat
and ocean spray, free me from
confinement. We lie
on the damp sand, me
on my back gazing up at the flawless
blue sky. Michael on his side
staring at my face.
He leans over and sucks ever
so gently on my unblemished
lower lip. He stops too soon.
“Is my breath gross?”
“Yeah. You’re a mess. Sandy
now, too.”
“What are you going to do
about that? Dunk me in the ocean?”
“If that’s what you want.” He scoops me
up and runs towards the water.
“Stop it, Michael.” I pound on
him with my cast—yelp at how
Cayman Summer Page 2
