Taken by Storm by Angela Morrison
Two white boxes catch my eye. They seem new. No dents or dust. i turn away and then rotate back, stare at them in the dim light of a dusty 40-watt bulb. Dad’s name labels one. Mom’s on the other. The return address is a mortuary. i can’t touch them, can’t move, just stand there, fixated.
My hand reaches out and drops, reaches again, just brushing the corner of Dad’s box. i bring my other hand forward, force both to grasp a corner of the box. i close my eyes and ease it off the shelf. Heavy. Dense. i rest it on my chest, wrap my arms around it, and lean back. i can’t leave him down there with the chokecherry jam and old peaches. i carry Dad upstairs, holding my breath, place him gently in the middle of the living room floor, and run back downstairs for Mom.
i want to pound on Gram’s door, wake her up and demand an explanation. Why didn’t she tell me they were there? Why did she stick my parents’ ashes down in the basement? How long have they been down there? What do we do with them now? i picture Gram’s white hair down around her face, her puckered toothless mouth, her dentures soaking on the nightstand, the blurry look in her eyes as she strains to understand me without her hearing aid. It’d give her a stroke.
i sit on the couch and stare at the boxes, move them up onto the coffee table, back to the floor, sit next to them. i want those boxes to talk, wonder if i could recognize anything inside. Is it all just gray powder? i have this sick urge to open them and plunge my hands into their ashes. i’m crazy to find something the furnace didn’t incinerate. A filling. My dad’s dive watch charred and black. Time spins away from me, sitting on the floor next to my parents, going from one extreme to another, unable to touch the boxes, wanting to open them. i keep going back to waking Gram but decide that’d just be two of us freaking. i remember how she said, “Cremation,” back when we decorated the tree. No wonder she hid them.
i wander back to Dad’s old room, search through the top drawer for my sleeping pills—freak, the bottle’s gone. Gram? i stretch out on the bed, stare at the ceiling, flip onto my stomach, punch my pillow, roll onto my side, and find my crack in the wall. Tonight it glares, and i sure didn’t find wall gunk in the basement.
i sit up before Mom’s screams start, don’t bother with a light, grab my laptop from the desk, and sign on. Please, please, please.
Maybe there is a god. She’s there.
chapter 35
DUST TO DUST
LEESIE HUNT / CHATSPOT LOG / 01/03 3:12 A.M.
LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK
POEM# 41, FALLING APART
I fumble myself dressed,
wrap in the jacket he loved—
it isn’t the same,
but the cleaners did their best.
I whisper my destination at
my parents’ door, ignore
mom’s protest and dad’s offer
to help, promise I’ll call,
and tear through the night, flying
over those hills that stand between
us—cursing the snow-packed slickness
that forces caution, slows my momentum, and
provides time to imagine him lying in
gram’s pink bathtub with weights
on his chest, holding the breath
that used to stir my hair, trickle
down my throat, and sigh life into me.
I pray the tub’s not deep enough for
shallow water blackout
and gram’s knives are too dull to
open veins, that he never got more of those
pills and doesn’t think of wrapping
scuba hoses around his neck.
I zoom through town,
thanking the lord for this chance,
blow past three stop signs to pull
into gram’s driveway and race to the door—
falling apart.
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8
She doesn’t reply or sign off—she’s still online. i wait and wait for her to post, but there’s no answer. Should i post again? Beg her to come hold my hand? Promise not to hurt her again? i type, please, Leese, and leave it at that.
Where is she? Sitting in her bedroom, staring at the screen, wondering who the hell i think i am bugging her again? I need somebody. No, Leese, i need you. Falling apart. At least that’s accurate.
She isn’t going to post. Stupid to hope. i go into the living room. Stare. Flip open my cell to call Leesie, snap it shut. i twist Gram’s old reading lamp around so it shines on Mom and Dad, walk back and forth from the dark kitchen to the boxes. Desperation draws me back to Dad’s old bedroom. i zone on the laptop screen. Still no message.
Maybe i should drive out to the farm, crawl through her window, and beg. i actually put my jacket on and am reaching for Gram’s pink-bunnied key ring when headlights slice through the night. A white pickup, shining like a ghost-mobile, rolls down the hill and turns into Gram’s driveway. i flick on the kitchen light and open the door to a slim shape wrapped in suede. i want to scoop her into a gigantic hug and not let her go.
Leesie draws her jacket close around her, narrows her eyes. “You look fine. What’s going on?” She sounds disappointed.
i turn and lead the way to Gram’s living room.
Leesie follows. “Was this just something to get back at me? If it was, you’re brilliant, because it totally worked. Look how I’m shaking.”
“Basement. i took some stuff down. For Gram.” i point out the boxes. “i found these. i just . . . found them”
“This is the big deal?” Leesie folds her arms and glares at me. i expect her foot to start tapping.
i nod, unable to speak and make it true.
“Well, what’s in them?”
“My mom and dad.” i gasp, struggle to keep my face from dissolving.
Leesie stares at the boxes, then at me, glances toward Gram’s room. “Ashes?” Her mouth forms the word, but she doesn’t voice it out loud.
She reaches out and brushes my forearm with her fingertips, pulls her hand back, tucks it safe under her arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“No one told me. They were just there. Downstairs. On a shelf with—” My voice breaks. i have to stop and vent.
“Why didn’t she tell you your parents were cremated?”
“i knew that much.” i sniff hard. “i haven’t been the easiest person to talk to lately.”
She bends her head. “Sorry for that, too.”
i sit down by the boxes, caress the cardboard, wanting to lay my cheek on Mom’s box and hug it.
Leesie kneels beside me, stops my hands. “Michael, this isn’t them. It’s just their bodies.”
i pull my hands free. “This is all i have.”
“Do something special, then.” She folds her hands in her lap. “Remember the Salmon People and their Ceremony of Tears? That’s what you need. It’s powerful stuff, Michael. Believe me.”
i stroke my mom’s box and examine the label. “You think i should buy them coffins, stick them in the ground?” i already bought Mom one coffin. Was the cherry and pink satin ashes now, too?
Leesie rests a hand lightly on my bowed back. “Gram would probably appreciate that. Isn’t your grandfather buried in the Tekoa Cemetery?”
“But they were divers. i can’t see sticking them in the dirt.” The label on Dad’s box catches my eye: MICHAEL WALDEN. Weird to see my name on a box of ashes. i need to change it to MIKE.
“You need to consider Gram’s feelings.” The weight of Leesie’s hand evaporates.
Was it ever there? Did I imagine it? Is she really sitting beside me? i turn to face her, grab that elusive hand, hold on to it too tight. “What about my feelings? What about theirs?” i’m getting too worked up. My voice is high and cracks.
She strokes my hand. “Did you ever discuss it? Casual, just in passing?” She isn’t saying anything that helps, but her voice is liquid calm pouring into the tense room.
“Nope.” i take a deep breath, hold it, exhale. “Who does that? Death never had anything to do w
“What about the will?”
“i could ask Stan.”
“Good idea.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “He might have some thoughts about a memorial service for you.”
“i don’t want any service.” i pull my hand away from hers, let it smooth over the boxes again, close my eyes.
She retreats to the couch. “Listen, it’s Sunday tomorrow. Come to church with me. My branch president is really easy to talk to. We could help you plan a simple service—something that would make you and Gram feel better.”
Better? Is she joking? “If i want a minister, Gram’s got one down the street.”
Leesie clasps her hands tight in her lap. “Why’d you ask me tonight?”
i tear myself away from the boxes, sink on the couch beside Leesie, close enough to breathe her in, but i don’t touch her. “i still need you, babe.” i want to hang on to her, wrap up in her like i used to, but my arms don’t move. She doesn’t relax toward me, lean into my shoulder, rest her thigh against mine. The inch between us seems like a massive wall. “Thanks for coming.”
“Sure.”
i close my eyes, inhale long and slow, exhale, cycle after cycle, breathing in the essence of Leesie. The suede is damp and overpowers her Sweet Banana Mango hair. She didn’t shower before she came. Even her sweat smells good.
She’s studying me when i open my eyes. Our glances touch and hold. In the bright glare of the desk lamp’s spotlight, i see the pain i caused etched on her face. The dark circles under her eyes that she hid with all that makeup, day after day. Her face is thinner. Her soft mouth closes in a pale line. No pleased pink eases the paleness of her cheeks. The summer sun has faded from her hair.
i take her hand again, gently this time—touch the scars one by one. “i’d like you to come back.”
“Really back?”
i nod, holding her eyes with mine. “Nothing’s right without you.”
“I thought I wanted this—more than anything—but I—” She shakes her head.
“This is about DeeDee.” My eyes hit the floor. “i haven’t seen her since before Christmas break.”
Leesie pulls her hand away. “She called me. Said you were over every night. I hung up before she could get too graphic.”
“She’s lying.”
Leesie touches my face. “So you didn’t—”
“Not at the party. i gagged on her.”
“I’m supposed to believe that?” She turns her back on me. “I saw you.”
“Well, it hurt, Leese, when you didn’t believe me. i wanted to hurt you back.”
She sits back against the couch again. “It worked.”
i lean my shoulder into hers. “That was the idea.”
“But she was lying?” She turns her face close to mine, waits until i meet her eyes. “You didn’t sleep with her?”
i break off the gaze and whisper, “Not every night.”
She stands up. “What are you saying?”
i can’t answer—can’t admit it. When i look up, she’s gone. No. No way. i catch her opening the kitchen door.
i press my back against it, trapping her. “i didn’t mean to—thought we could talk. i was really down.” i look at Leesie for a second and then away. “Isadore’s been relentless and you hated me—but you know what DeeDee’s like.” i turn toward Leesie, put my hand over hers on the doorknob. “It freaked me, really. i didn’t go back. Promise. Told her to back off the next day.” i let the fingers of my free hand comb the hair back from Leesie’s forehead, lean closer to her face. “i missed you so much.”
“So it’s my fault?” She slides down the door, sits on the floor. “I’m not taking the blame for that.”
“No, no. i’m sorry.” i squat down next to her. “You got to believe me. It meant nothing. Don’t leave me again, please.” i clutch both of her hands.
“We’re too different, me and you.” She focuses on her captured hands. “Our values. Our morals. I thought I loved you enough that it wouldn’t matter—anything you did.” She sniffs, and a tear threatens to spill out of her left eye. “This? I don’t know. It makes me sick that you were with her . . . like that.”
“But you and i weren’t together. It wasn’t cheating. Felt like it, though. You haunt me, babe.”
Pleasure doesn’t break out on her face like it used to when i called her that. It stays serious and sad.
“Forget it. Please, forgive me.” i let go of her hands, cup her face instead. “i won’t hurt you again. i so, so promise. i’m not angry anymore.”
i bend to kiss her, but she turns her cheek to me.
“I don’t think I can.” Her voice is husky and low. “Let me go, please.” She stands.
i stay on the floor like a beggar at her feet, trying to think of something that will change her mind. “Please, don’t leave now, Leese. i don’t know what i’ll do.”
She closes her eyes and bows her head. Her lips don’t move, but she’s got to be praying. Her eyes drift open and wrap mine in their trouble.
i bow my head, steel myself for the click of the latch, cool night air on my cheek, the soft pad of her feet leaving.
But it doesn’t come.
She reaches down, takes back my hand. “How about friends?”
i let her pull me to my feet. “Yeah. Sure. Friends. Great.”
“I just have one condition.”
i hold my hands up and take a step back. “You got it, babe, i mean, Leese, i won’t try anything.”
“It’s not that easy. I’ll stay. We can be friends, but you have to come to church with me tomorrow.”
i don’t even hesitate. “Fine. Sure. You win.”
“This isn’t about me. I want you to win. It might help with”—she motions toward the living room, those twin boxes of parental ash—“all this.”
chapter 36
CHURCHED
MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG—VOLUME #8
i wear the black pants and gray dress shirt we bought for the dance. Can’t get the tie right. Freak. It’s a Valentino. She doesn’t even own a cell. Her computer is an ancient desktop. And she bought me a vintage designer tie. And i, creep freaking jerk, threw it all away.
i get to Leesie’s late—park in the front, run up the steps, and ring the doorbell.
“Thought you’d chickened out,” she calls from the driveway, where she stands by the pickup with a set of keys in her hand. She wears a denim skirt, brown leather boots—not cowboy—a top i bought, and her damaged suede jacket. She runs down their curved gravel driveway and grabs Gram’s bunny key ring. “My family already left. Better let me drive.”
Leesie’s branch is in Rockford, the third dinky town up the highway toward Spokane. She whizzes along the road, doesn’t slow to 25 mph for the towns. “Small-town cops all sleep in Sunday morning.” She squeals off the highway, pulls up in front of a small white building.
“Stylish, huh.” She gets out of the car. “There’s not a lot of us out in the country, so we rent this Grange hall. It’s an old army barrack they had moved here.”
i don’t know or care what “Grange” is. The place screams “dump.” Nothing like the nice building her dance was in or her fancy wedding cake temple.
Leesie opens a heavy wood door, held together with repeated coats of blue paint. We pass through a foyer and into a room filled with rows of metal folding chairs, milling people, and loud, happy talking. A woman with gray hair plays hymns on a black upright piano. She pounds as hard as she can and keeps the pedal to the metal, trying to drown out the cheerful buzz.
“Thought we were late,” i whisper, hoping my breath tickles Leesie’s ear.
“We never start on time.” The cement floor is painted bright red, the walls a dull green. Works for Christmas, but what do they do on the Fourth of July?
“Want me to hang up our coats?”
She shakes her head. “Furnace doesn’t work too well.” She holds my hand loosely to guide me through the buzzing Mormons, says hello, to people
Her mom and Stephie have a row of chairs saved. “Those seats are for you.” Stephie points to the places on the end. “These are for Dad and Phil.” She braves the chill to show off her flowery dress with a red velvet collar and headband to match.
i sit down, tighten my fingers around Leesie’s so she can’t let go of my hand. There’s maybe forty people total in the room, lots of them kids. i catch sight of Phil, wearing a navy suit, a white shirt, and a tie covered with leering Tasmanian devils. He’s on his feet at the front of the room, placing rectangular trays full of tiny white cups on a table covered with a white tablecloth. Leesie’s dad, wearing almost the exact same suit and white shirt—with a more cautious tie—helps him cover the trays with a white embroidered cloth. They both sit down behind the table.