Cayman Summer Page 3

  much that hurts.

  He pulls up short.

  “How about nurses?”

  “What?”

  “I found you nurses.”

  “You’re sticking me back

  in a hospital? No way.”

  “No hospital—I promise.”

  He takes me to a short cement building

  set down in a tropical garden—hot pink

  bougainvillea spill from pots,

  palms, high and low, fan out in all

  directions, orange and yellow

  flowers carpet the ground.

  Inside—cool, clean elegance,

  marble floors, wood-paneled walls,

  paintings of ocean sunrises.

  My room’s a plush prison—

  white bed draped with gauzy netting

  like a room in a swank resort.

  “You’re leaving me here?”

  “Nurses, babe. They can take

  care of you. I can’t.”

  “You didn’t even try.”

  “You need therapy and wound care,

  pain management. I can’t do that.”

  “How long?”

  “At least stay long enough

  to get cleaned up.”

  He picks me up from my chair,

  sniffs in my direction. “You stink.”

  “Now that’s romantic.”

  He lays me on the bed.

  I sink into a world of soft

  feather luxury.

  He leans over me with

  encouragement leaking

  from the corners of his grin.

  “They’ve got a therapeutic

  whirlpool you can soak in

  all morning. Wouldn’t that feel nice?”

  He’s starting to convince me.

  “What are you going to do?”

  He blushes under his tan.

  “Oh, my gosh—

  you’re going diving?”

  He bends low to give

  me an enormous kiss.

  “Please?”

  “As if I could stop you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Get out of here.”

  The smile that slips onto my face

  as I watch him leave me

  knows only him, only here,

  only this moment.

  Today, it’s enough.

  MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME #10

  Dive Buddy: guiding

  Date: 04/28

  Dive #: lost count

  Location: Grand Cayman

  Dive Site: Fish Eye Fantasy

  Weather Condition: sunny

  Water Condition: slight chop

  Depth: 87 ft.

  Visibility: 80 ft.

  Water Temp: 82

  Bottom Time: 42 min.

  Comments:

  I wish I could go out to the East End—best diving on the island. North is good, too. Lots of eagle rays up there. But those guys will be long gone by now. I’m close to Seven Mile Beach. Lame dives by Cayman standards. Excellent compared to Thailand.

  I borrow the rehab center’s phone and call a guy we used to charter. Great. He’s got a boat going out at 10 AM.

  “It’s a private charter, though.” He sounds like he’s trying to get rid of me. “Tough luck.”

  “Wait.” I offer something no dive captain can resist. “Look, I’ll haul tanks, guide, set up all the gear. Whatever it takes. It’ll be the easiest day you ever spent on the water.”

  “I don’t know, dude.”

  I pull out my secret weapon. “Are there females in the party?”

  He pauses—checking the list most likely. “Four.”

  “Bring me along, and they’ll be back.”

  He laughs. “You can guarantee that?”

  I’m so glad Leesie can’t hear this. “Just stating the facts.”

  “This is Michael Walden—Mike’s son?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. You’re in. Remember the dock we pick up at?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’d do anything for your dad. He was the best.”

  My eyes smart, but I manage to thank the guy without blubbering. “I’ll need gear, too.”

  “Figures.”

  The dive isn’t spectacular. The women are annoying, but still it feels awesome to be breathing through a reg, finning over coral beds, relaxing in my native element where I don’t have to talk or think. Just be.

  After the trip, I swing by the hotel and pick up my laptop on my way to see Leesie. She’s not in her room when I get there, so I lounge on her bed, email Claude to ship me my junk—especially the stuff I bought for Leesie, silk skirts and there’s a necklace I hope she likes. It’ll have to come by air or we’ll never get it. If Claude wasn’t such a jerk, I’d send him a ticket and have him bring it out here. But Claude is—Claude. No thanks.

  I sign into ChatSpot, notice Kimbo69 is online, and decide it’s time to bring in reinforcements.

  MICHAEL WALDEN / CHATSPOT LOG / 2:35 PM

  04/28

  liv2div says: hey, Kim…it’s Michael.

  Kimbo69 says: Leesie’s Michael? Didn’t know we were friends. I’m so not talking to you.

  liv2div says: I need your help.

  Kimbo69 says: No way. Leesie’s my best friend…you broke her heart, ground it into minced meat, and fed it to the sharks. Go back to your pretty prostitute—or buy a new one. Stay away from Leesie…you messed up her life enough. I know the whole no-sex thing must be tough on you, but that’s no excuse—you promised, her. She hasn’t been online. What have you done to her?

  liv2div says: you haven’t heard?

  Kimbo69 says: Don’t tell me you’re back together.

  liv2div says: Leesie crashed her pickup driving home from BYU

  Kimbo69 says: Crashed??? Leesie????

  liv2div says: yeah, last Thursday

  Kimbo69 says: I don’t believe you!

  liv2div says: why would I make this up?

  Kimbo69 says: Why don’t I know about it?

  liv2div says: her parents haven’t called you?

  Kimbo69 says: I don’t think they have my number. You’re serious?

  liv2div says: I don’t joke much anymore, Kim…haven’t had much to laugh about for a long time

  Kimbo69 says: I used to feel sorry for you but not after what you pulled in Thailand. If this is some kind of trick to get me to help you get back with her, it’s not going to work.

  liv2div says: freak, Kim…don’t you care what happened to Leesie?

  Kimbo69 says: She banged up her truck. Big deal…craa-aap!! She must have been hurt or she would have been online. We were supposed to chat. Oh, crap. She’s dead. Crap!!!! Why didn’t you say that?

  liv2div says: calm down…she’s not dead…lots of broken stuff… it’s rough

  Kimbo69 says: Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!!!! How bad is it?!? What’s broken? Is she like paralyzed? Oh my gosh!!!!!!

  liv2div says: the pickup’s totaled

  Kimbo69 says: I don’t care about the damn pickup! She’s dying, isn’t she? What hospital is she in? I need to come see her. Don’t let her die!!!

  liv2div says: listen a minute…stop jumping in before I can type out what’s happening…she’ll be okay

  Kimbo69 says: Okay? Like paralyzed in a wheelchair the rest of her life or totally fine?

  liv2div says: physically she should recover…totally…she’s got a stitched up head…they shaved off half her hair…her hand flew into her nose when the air bag blew so they are both busted… her collarbone snapped, ribs cracked, sprained ankles…she’s in a ton of pain

  Kimbo69 says: Tell me the hospital she’s in. I’m coming right now. To hell with my classes!! When did this happen? Crap, why didn’t you tell me before? You suck, you know!!! You really, really suck!!!!

  liv2div says: hang on a minute…you can’t visit her

  Kimbo69 says: Like hell, I can’t. Leesie and I are soul-mates. You don’t have a clue what t
hat means. I’m coming!

  liv2div says: hang on, Kim…I need to tell you the worst part

  Kimbo69 says: It gets worse? You suck at breaking it gently. What are you hiding? What’s really happened to her?

  liv2div says: I’ve been trying to tell you…Phil was with her…you know, her brother…he didn’t make it

  Kimbo69 says: Phil’s dead? Dead? That’s horrible. Awful. Oh, my poor girl. She’s taking it bad?

  liv2div says: really bad…I thought if anyone could deal with something like this it was her, but she blames herself…won’t tell anyone what happened…not even me

  Kimbo69 says: I’ll come visit today. Where is she?

  liv2div says: she’s so messed up…she thinks God won’t forgive her…she’s turned her back on her family and all her Mormon stuff

  Kimbo69 says: Leave it to me. I’ll talk to her.

  liv2div says: Leesie’s broken up more inside than out…her wounds will heal…I don’t know about the soul part

  Kimbo69 says: I told her once I wanted her down here groveling in the dirt with the rest of us mortals…but no, not her…you can’t let her go under, Michael! DO YOU HEAR ME?

  liv2div says: I need some help, Kim…I think she’ll listen to you

  Kimbo69 says: Of course she will. Get her right now!!! Tell her it’s me.

  liv2div says: she’s not here

  Kimbo69 says: when will she be back?

  liv2div says: the nurses have her…I don’t know

  Kimbo69 says: I have to go to a stupid class that I’ve blown off too many times. I’ll head out after that. We’ll have a long, long girl talk.

  liv2div says: she can’t really type

  Kimbo69 says: Face to face, numbskull. What hospital is she in?

  liv2div says: they released her Sunday night…she couldn’t bear going home…so we ran away together

  Kimbo69 says: You kidnapped her?

  liv2div says: rescued her…she’s nineteen…we can do what we want

  Kimbo69 says: You total creep! How could you be so selfish at a time like this?

  liv2div says: she was desperate, begged me…freak, it broke my heart to see her so pathetic

  Kimbo69 says: That’s no excuse for doing something so stupid.

  liv2div says: I tried to talk her out of it…still trying…she won’t even let me call her parents

  Kimbo69 says: You stole her from the hospital with all those injuries?

  liv2div says: her mom wanted to take her home…look after her there…Leesie’s so eaten up with guilt…she can’t stand to be near her mom…it’s sad, wrong…but I’m here…I’m taking care of her…better than her parents could

  Kimbo69 says: I’m sure you are. You disgust me—taking advantage of my best friend when she’s like this!!!

  liv2div says: Leesie never told me you were vicious…and for the record I’m NOT taking advantage of her

  Kimbo69 says: How did you even get back in the picture? What happened to your concubine?

  liv2div says: don’t call her that…I helped Suki get out of a bad scene…that’s it…I never touched her

  Kimbo69 says: Right. You got Leesie to believe that?

  liv2div says: she believed it enough to send that missionary dude packing

  Kimbo69 says: Jaron? Crap. I was rooting for him. Not you. Not you. Not you.

  liv2div says: whatever, Kim…hate me all you want…will you talk to Leesie?

  Kimbo69 says: where are you guys…can I phone her?

  liv2div says: Leesie won’t let me tell anyone

  Kimbo69 says: Thailand?

  liv2div says: of course not…I’ll let her tell you…I think chatting would be safest…she’ll go for that…I’ll have to do the typing until they take the cast of her left hand and let her use her right arm again

  Kimbo69 says: What happened to her arm?

  liv2div says: It’s in a sling and strapped down because of her collarbone. The arm’s okay.

  Kimbo69 says: It’ll be weird knowing you’re eavesdropping.

  liv2div says: you’ll never know I’m there…then you’ll do it?

  Kimbo69 says: Of course, I’ll do it. Don’t be stupid.

  liv2div says: just don’t get too gross, okay?

  Kimbo69 says: Me? Never.

  Chapter 4

  HAIR-RAISING

  LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

  POEM # 77, WHO AM I?

  Nurses dressed in sunshine yellow

  pour into my breezy room.

  Soft island hands,

  some black, some white,

  undress, unwrap, unwind,

  expertly draping and

  robing so I’m never

  exposed, so gentle I only

  cry out once.

  That cry earns me

  an IV bag and a morphine

  pump until I’m sufficiently

  numbed.

  The clinical whirlpool bath

  isn’t like a hotel hot tub—

  metal, deep, sterile.

  I’m in it up to my neck,

  arm sling, diamond and all,

  my straggled hair bundled

  in a clear shower cap,

  left hand encased in plastic.

  “Don’t get your face wet,” they tell me.

  “When can I get this off?”

  I point to my nose wrappings.

  “We’ll check with your doctor.”

  “I don’t have a doctor.”

  One glances at my chart.

  “You do now.”

  The enormity of the burden Michael

  shouldered for me makes

  my eyes glisten.

  “Don’t cry, sugar. It’ll make your

  cast soggy.”

  I stay in so long I’m dizzy.

  “You need to eat.”

  “Not hungry.”

  The “sugar” nurse brings new

  cotton underclothes and a large

  frothy fruit drink rich

  with banana and mango.

  I sip and remember.

  “I think I used to

  use this on my hair.”

  Sugar and company hook me

  back up to my morphine,

  hit the pump a bunch before

  they clean my wounds and soothe them

  with aloe and ointment.

  They wrap my ribs fresh,

  change my wet sling for a dry one,

  admire my ring, and

  wind new figure eights.

  “Keep that immobile,” Sugar orders.

  I nod meekly, dozy from the drugs.

  My blue bruised ankles

  are less swollen now.

  They snug on fancy post-op

  cast boots lined with support—

  nothing like the floppy foot gear

  I’ve been wearing. Sugar gets me

  to walk, dragging my IV along.

  My walk ends at a black and gold salon

  with too many mirrors.

  Bruised eyes, fat lip, bandaged up nose,

  ugly, ugly stitches and so much of my hair

  shaved away—nearly half my head.

  A stylist washes what’s left clean.

  “This is going to be a challenge.”

  She holds up the ugly, wet mop

  that seems foreign.

  That’s not my hair.

  Not my long, full mane. Not the silky

  locks Michael tangled into knots

  whenever we made out.

  The stylist frowns at it.

  “You’ll have limited mobility. Looking

  after this will be tough. Will

  you have help?”

  I think of Mom at home who

  would wash and blow dry

  my hair every day if I asked her.

  “Cut it, then. I don’t care.”

  She chops it to my shoulders,

  parts it on the side,

  experiments with a comb over,

  but there isn’t enough hair<
br />
  in the world to cover my stitches.

  I stare in the mirror and hate it,

  detest the silliness of the pathetic

  subterfuge, loathe who I am,

  what I’ve become, revile

  against any effort to cover

  up my damnation

  with a transparent attempt at normal.

  The stylist shrugs her shoulders,

  agreeing with my silent assessment.

  Yes. It’s awful. Yes, you are hideous.

  Yes, it’s no use. She combs a bit of hair

  down over my forehead. “Bangs

  will help when this shaved part

  grows back.”

  Shaved? Good idea.

  I challenge the freak in the mirror.

  She caves. I squeeze my eyes tight.

  “Shave it then. All of it.”

  Deaf to dissuasion. I insist—

  “Shave it. Shave it. Shave it.”

  Clippers buzz, tickle my scalp,

  barely touch me.

  It’ll grow back better, longer, stronger.

  Who am I kidding? I don’t deserve

  hair. A few skillful

  passes free me of my broken beauty.

  Buzzing stops. Silence. I touch

  but can’t look—won’t open my eye

  until they spin me around.

  Michael, sun-kissed and saltwater fresh,

  sleeps on my bed when I hobble

  back to my room. I dismiss

  my guides with a promise to rest,

  touch his hand to wake him.

  “Michael. Hey.”

  His eyes open,

  focus,

  explode.

  “Freak, Leese. What the hell

  did they do to you?”

  He’s on his feet, wrapping

  me in his arms, getting tangled

  in my IV’s tubes.

  “I’m sorry, babe.” He trembles with emotion.

  “I thought they’d look after you.”

  He chokes back a sob.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.

  I’ll find someplace else.”

  He touches my stark white

  new-shaved scalp like it’s lethal.

  “What did they do with it?”