Unbroken Connection (33 page)
“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.
SOMEWHERE
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #10
D
IVE
B
UDDY
: Leesie
D
ATE
: 04/26
D
IVE
#:—
L
OCATION
: Kellogg, ID
D
IVE
S
ITE
: Shoshone Medical Center
W
EATHER
C
ONDITION
: sleet
W
ATER
C
ONDITION
: half frozen
D
EPTH
: surfacing
V
ISIBILITY
: clearer
W
ATER
T
EMP
.: okay
B
OTTOM
T
IME
: 24 hours
C
OMMENTS
:
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.