Unbroken Connection (32 page)

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 both 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

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.